


Best Days of Your Life

by MezzaMorta



Series: Quartet [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attention to detail fetish, Banter, Bit of Papa kink, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock, Caning, Committed Relationship, Companionable Snark, Consensual Kink, Corporal Punishment, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Frottage, John is a Horndog, Light BDSM, M/M, Middle John, Naughty Mycroft, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Roleplay, Romance, School Kink, School Uniforms, Sex Is Fun, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Brat, Sock garter fetish, Spanking, Strapping, Top Greg Lestrade, Top Mycroft, Uniform Kink, Vintage clothing fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-24 19:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14362041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: It's Greg's birthday, and he's not best pleased about it - the lads plan a kinky roleplay to cheer him up, with great attention to detail, testing their acting skills to turn each other on.A sequel of sorts to 'Washing Up', but mainly just another pretext for muck.





	1. You have to plan these things

**Author's Note:**

> Do check out my other stories if such things interest you - which I very much hope they do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dirty plans are discussed over lovely tea and biccies.

Inside 221B, on a fresh spring Tuesday afternoon, a conversation was in progress - as all the best conversations usually were - over tea and ginger nut biscuits. The subject of Greg's impending birthday had arisen, and hot debate about the precise nature of the gift to be given had ensued. Options had been presented, ideas negotiated, appropriateness discussed. A kind of consensus had been reached between the three men most intimately interested in the subject, and recommended timings were being sketched out in accordance with four rather complicated schedules. 

"So Friday, you reckon? He'll be done by the usual time, and I'm not on shift at all that day," said the chipped mug of extra-strength builder's; one sugar, not-too-much milk.

"Yes, I can be there on Friday afternoon for the preparations. I should be able to have a half-day, barring some major global disaster. Rest assured, I'll be pressing my team to avert such an encumbrance on our weekend, but it is always somewhat in the lap of the gods," replied the Wedgwood china; unsweetened Earl Grey with lemon.

"Rubbish. Let the idiots get on without you, brother, or they'll never learn. At least on Friday," commented the contemporary ceramic with the insulting slogan; honeyed and milky.

"Believe me, dearest, nothing would give me greater pleasure."

“Really? Nothing at all…?” 

Mycroft Holmes smirked at the cheeky, sly look he received from his incorrigible brother. He elegantly sipped his tea and crossed one leg over the other as he sat back in the client-armchair, fixing Sherlock with a heated look. Sherlock grinned, slurped noisily and slouched carelessly in his consulting chair, just to make a point. John ignored both posers and tutted inwardly from the sofa. If they weren’t fighting, they were flirting. If they weren’t flirting they were f -.

"Fine. We're OK for Friday, John. No clients allowed," continued Sherlock, interrupting John’s pleasant reverie.

John raised his eyebrows in mock shock. "What, not even if a 10 comes in?"

Sherlock shook his head decisively. "Even a 10 will have to wait until Monday. Birthdays take precedence. Birthdays are more fun." 

Sherlock had acquired a love of birthdays since becoming part of a relationship which involved double the conventional number of them, and since he realised that everyone else sort of hated them. Birthdays were very high on the very short list of things that were allowed to postpone cases. Other candidates for consideration included, Christmas (reluctantly and only due to partner-pressure and mass sulking); extreme illness (such as a bullet wound or man-flu), Rosie-related emergencies, and Eurovision.

"Special measures, then. No clients. Phones, devices, and laptops off," said John, decisively, relieved there was not going to be a row about it.

"Yes. He deserves it," nodded Sherlock, earnestly.

"Yeah. He does." John smiled, pleased as ever to witness the depth of feeling between his lovers. "We'll let him get down the pub for a swifty with the Yard lot, and tell him he needs to get his arse to Mycroft’s by seven or else."

"Has to be Mycroft’s, does it?” Sherlock screwed his nose up sceptically.

“We can’t very well do it here, can we, brother mine? Hardly the right setting. Not believeable in the slightest,” scoffed Mycroft. “And though she’ll never know it from me, I do have a soft spot for Mrs H, and I’d sooner spare her the trauma of listening to it through the walls,” he said, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “I can hardly look her in the eye as it is.”

“Myc has that lovely study with the big globe and the mahogany plan chest…,” said John, dreamily.

“Ugh, you and that study. Why don’t you just marry it? Fine. Pub. The Hampstead house, 7 o’clock. Don't let him linger. I don't want him coming home roaring pissed, unable to perform," warned Sherlock, frowning.

"It'll be fine. He's not exactly going to go out clubbing with Anderson, is he? He's not that far gone into midlife crisis," said John, feeling slightly unwell at the thought.

"Do you think he's coping, though, John? I do wonder," mused Mycroft, with a little concern. 

"About being on the wrong side of 45? Well, wrong side of 48. Yeah. He'll live. 50 next year. That might be a head-fuck. But can't complain with us to keep him in trim, can he?" 

"He has seemed a little...," said Mycroft, holding his hand flat in the air and tilting it from side to side.

"Nah, we'll soon snap him out of that," said John, reassuringly, touched by Mycroft's sensitivity.

"Better do. He's been grotesquely grumpy in the last few weeks," said Sherlock, with great insensitivity. "He shouted at me for burning a hole in his dressing gown!" he exclaimed, outraged by the mere memory of it.

"Can you  _imagine_?" drawled Mycroft, dryly.

"You left a bunsen burner on, you careless prat!" cried John, throwing his hands up in despair.

"I was coming back to it!  _He_ burned the hole, I merely lit the flame. Not my fault he wasn't paying attention. First rule of any lab," replied the sniffy detective.

"It isn't a lab, though, is it? It's a kitchen, where normal people make porridge and read the paper," said John, instantly regretting having started up this conversation again. 

"Not my fault you and him are  _normal_ ," huffed Sherlock, placing as much emphatic distaste on the operative word as possible.

"Ish," corrected John, holding up a finger. Sherlock thought about it and nodded.

"I concede 'ish', yes. Still, he shouldn't stay over so often if he can't cope with the working environment," he carried on, haughtily. 

John laughed. 

"Yeah, well, let me know when you're planning on telling him that. I'll bring popcorn. As if you'd prefer it! No special cuddle time with Greggy? Anyway, your lab in his loft room causes enough problems. When all those flies hatched...".

Sherlock winced. "He was  _not_ happy about that."

"He's still not. Keeps finding carcasses down the toaster," said John matter-of-factly.

Mycroft gave a polite cough. "At least Gregory's dressing gown wasn't dissolved in acid. Unlike mine…," he finished, darkly.

John shook his head in sympathy. That had been a woeful day. 

"Still haven't recovered from that, have you, love?"

Sherlock spluttered. "Neither have I! You were horrible to me about it, Mycroft! Completely unreasonable, verging on embarrassingly hysterical," he said, still highly offended.

Mycroft quirked a smile and raised a superior brow. "Still feeling the consequences of my displeasure when you sit down, brother mine?" 

He was very proud of the way he'd handled the situation. Sherlock flushed.

"John, make him shut up!” he howled. Then under his breath, “Yes, actually, if only phantom pains. Mean…". He pouted magnificently as he remembered all he'd suffered (quite unfairly) in the aftermath of that little (only slightly intentional) misadventure.

"Warranted," said Mycroft, with great satisfaction. 

"Not in the slightest! Greg says you're not allowed to..."

"No, Gregory forbids me from interfering with his quality discipline time, and prohibits my using an implement in the extraction of justice from your backside. I am, if you care to recall, permitted to _spank_ you like the peril to human patience that you are."

"Don't use that word, Mycroft!" complained Sherlock, cringing.

“Patience? Peril? Or spa-“

“Shut. Up! John, make him!”

John looked at his watch, trying as hard as he could to tune out the whining.

"Could we maybe get back to Greg's birthday surprise, if it's not taking up too much valuable bickering time?"

"Quite right, John. Lock, stop being a vexatious horror."

"Why don't  _you_ stop being a massive - "

"For God's sake!" yelled John. 

"Well, I ask you!" Sherlock put everything he had into his sulk, but then took a very patient and mature breath. "Do you really think Greg will go for it? The plan?" 

John chuckled without even considering it. "You're having a laugh - course he will!"

Sherlock looked a little insecurely at him. "What if he's too tired and just rolls his eyes at us? Then we're all left standing there like complete tossers."

Mycroft frowned mildly. "Surely not a distinct possibility? Given the circumstances? The visual imagery of the thing alone suggests...," he trailed off, suddenly beset by intriguing little technicolour scenarios. He re-crossed his legs.

John shook his head. "He won't leave us hanging. Not for this. Rat up a drainpipe." He sipped at his tea with conviction.

"And you're sure this is what he'll want?" Sherlock looked intently at John, searching for telltale signs of doubt. 

"Mate, seriously, I know how that godforsaken little mind of his works. He'll go for it. You know he thinks about it. Just like Mycroft thinks about...what he thinks about."

Sherlock giggled. "Dirty soldiers."

Mycroft blushed to his hairline, feeling a twitch in his trousers. "You think about dirty doctors!" he shot back, determined not to be outdone in disgrace.

"So what?! I like the shiny instruments,” exclaimed Sherlock, his voice rising higher. “John's worse, he thinks about dirty policemen!" he accused, pointing aggressively at the bemused man.

John nodded impassively. "Yeah, I like a bit of restorative justice, me. We all have our special happy place. Greg's just happens to be...you two in posh school uniform and me in a pair of glasses and a tweed jacket, that's all. The filthy bastard."

Sherlock snorted. "I think it's disgusting."

"No, you don't."

"No, I don't. I'm running another check on his deleted search history. Just to be safe."

"Go ahead. You'll see I'm right. Can you see him saying 'not tonight, lads, pull your pants up, I'd rather have a curry and a kip?'"

"Probability practically nil, I should say, brother mine," said Mycroft with equanimity. 

"Exactly. Don't worry about it, love." 

"OK," said Sherlock, smiling sweetly at this reassurance.

After a pause in which all three men drank their tea and polished off the remaining biccies – they were always careful to put the right number out so there couldn’t be any more undignified hair-pulling fights over who got the last one - Mycroft cleared his throat a little hesitantly. 

"Erm, gentlemen, perhaps we might discuss the exact structure and sequence of events? I know you two are happy to improvise, but I would feel a little more comfortable if I knew the general direction..."

"We're fucking, not writing a sodding play, Mycroft!" scoffed Sherlock. 

John kicked at him pointlessly from the sofa. "Oi, be nice. Sure, Myc, if it helps. I thought I'd meet him at the door."

"Right."

"You know, in character. Set the mood. Give him the setting and the context."

"Mm, and we'll be waiting - in the room or outside?"

"Ooh, dunno. Inside? Slouching about being all Holmes-ish? God, your bored slouching is annoying. Is it genetic? That’ll get his blood up for a start."

"Could stand outside, waiting, all worried and scared,” offered Sherlock. “That would be interesting. Maybe more realistic?"

"See how you feel. But I'll know from his first reaction if we're on or not. Worst case scenario he says 'not tonight, darlings', and we just reset for Saturday. No big deal. Either way, we're all getting laid on Greg's birthday. This way, we just get a nice opener. So to speak."

"We all get laid whenever it's Greg's unbirthday too,” said Sherlock. “I just want it to be a bit kinkier for him than usual."

"I know. Bless."

"I'm not entirely sure I know what the, erm, angle should be," said Mycroft, doubtfully.

Sherlock giggled, earning a reproving look from his brother, who found double entendres tiresome. Especially when he was the one accidentally making them.

John shrugged. "Usual type of thing, I guess. I’ll lead, you follow. Do you want to go through some scenarios?" 

Sherlock looked through his lashes at his brother and waggled his eyebrows, his voice sinking to the depths of his sultry range. "We've both been very bad boys, Mycroft…"

Mycroft suppressed a smile even as he blushed and adjusted himself. "Haven't we just?" He pressed his lips together thoughtfully. "Could we...vary the dynamic a little, do you think?" he ventured, hesitantly.

John's face registered open curiosity. "What did you have in mind, lovely?"

"Well, I do get a little...habituated to being the calm and calculating one. I always seem to play the more responsible role in such scenes. I wondered if I might be permitted to explore my, shall we say, Sherlockian side?"

"Want to let your hair down a bit, Myc? Get yourself into some trouble?” John leaned forwards, highly interested and keen to encourage more of this type of thing. He very much saw it as his job to instigate as much original filth in their lives as possible.

"Something like that," he said, smiling wryly.

Sherlock’s face split into a delighted grin and he bounced in his chair. "You want to be the naughtiest one! You want to get taken down! Do you want to have a temper tantrum, Mycie?! Oh, yum! I could give you lessons."

"I've seen it done by the master too many times to need lessons, thank you.” Mycroft looked down, somewhat abashed under the scrutiny of his lovers, but enjoying their excitement and approval. “I confess I had thought about being a little less...compliant with instructions. I think Gregory might like it too, for variation."

"Ha! Knew you always wanted to be more like me,” said Sherlock in triumph. “But I'll only be worse in response. I won't be able to help it.” He bit his lip coquettishly and looked down, and up again. His eyes opened wider in mock-innocence and he curled a piece of hair round one finger. “My behaviour is simply dreadful, you know. Mr Watson’s always saying so," he said in a breathy little voice, casting a very wicked look at John.

John put his mug down to prevent himself dropping it. "Stop that now if you know what's good for you. Save it for Friday or I’ll be useless.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes impatiently, but hit upon a helpful suggestion. "As much as Gregory loves taking you in hand when you’re being a ghastly brat, you could try for 'good little boy who is so very sorry and desperate to please', and see where that gets you?"

Sherlock considered this. "Well... Yeah. Never thought of that. That'd be a change for him, wouldn't it? A treat. Just this once."

John rubbed his hands together. "OK, so naughty Mycroft has led his sweet baby brother astray."

"Oh, he has,” agreed Mycroft, smiling suggestively. “And Mr Watson is very cross indeed."

"Yup. I'll do stern and exasperated, and ‘very sorry to call you in from work, Mr Lestrade, but really I'm at the end of my tether with these two’..."

"That sort of thing. I do think you ought to consider 'nervous about incurring the wrath of poor, frustrated Mr Lestrade'. Depending on Greg’s take, of course. Could add an interesting dimension. And we'll take it from there?"

“Bad boys will be punished, Mycroft Holmes,” said John, looking down his nose at him. Mycroft flushed and pretended to examine a loose thread on his cuff.

"Don't tell us too much in advance. I like surprises too,” said Sherlock quickly, as though it needing stating aloud.

"I know how you do,” said John, grinning broadly. “We’ll leave lots of room to manoeuvre, and we’ll all hatch our own vile little tricks over the next few days, yeah?”

"What about costume?" asked Mycroft, glad to be getting down to logistics.

Sherlock tutted disapprovingly. "Oh, _vanitas vanitatum_ , brother. Do you ever think about anything apart from clothes?"

"More than you can ever comprehend, brother mine. Just for that I’ll choose some little shorts and knee socks for you…"

Sherlock opened his mouth in outrage.

"Keep the Latin for Friday, that'll drive him crazy," chimed John, helpfully.

"Oh, John, he really doesn’t know any. Barely enough to do The Times crossword. In all seriousness, would you leave it to me to source all the requisite items? Clothing and…the rest? I shall strive for authenticity."

"Always, Myc. You and your filthy contact book. Priceless."

"Thank you, John. One does one's best."

"Repeatedly, as I recall."

And that was that. 

“Great,” said Sherlock, slapping his hands together with finality. “Now, is anyone going to give me a blowjob?”

He was met with a veritable wall of incredulity.

“No? Handjob? Fingerjob? No-one? Huh. So rude. In that case, I’ll be in my room practicing my autofellatio. Do not disturb or you’ll put me in traction.”

He wafted out in a cloud of regal detachment, shedding clothes.

John shrugged neutrally.

“Mycroft, it strikes me that the best thing we could do right now is ignore him completely and fuck each other over the coffee table.”

“Mm. Fancy it, John?” replied Mycroft, casually, examining his nails.

“Always. But what are the chances of us getting through it undisturbed?”

“Low to zilch.”

“Exactly. And what odds us not wondering about what’s going on in there?”

Mycroft sighed, and looked up to the ceiling thoughtfully. “Pathetic. Hardly worth calculating.”

John shook his head in exasperation. “I feel there must be some formula for resisting the little bastard somewhere. Can’t you work it out, Holmes?”

“If I could do that, my dear Doctor Watson, I’d have had a far simpler life.”

John winked. “It wouldn’t suit you, mate.”

“I’ve always liked you, you know," mused the British Government, pleasantly.

“Snap," replied the good doctor, rising to his feet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments gratefully received. x


	2. Attention to detail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations are made and revealed. Greg meets that nice Mr Watson and gets inside the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can bear to stick with me, we will get to the scorching hot stuff, I swear it.

After their vigorous Tuesday afternooner, Mycroft returned to work and thence to his grace-and-favour penthouse in St. James’s, wincing at the pulled muscle in his right thigh, which made itself known with every step. John collected Rosie from nursery wearing a polo neck jumper to disguise his new un-matching set of bite marks, desperately wishing he could pull it down and shout “Look, look, I get regular shagging!” at the other strung-out parents; and Sherlock retreated to his room with an ice pack, after what had turned out to be a radically overambitious demonstration of autofellatory gymnastics.

Greg stayed in his own Lambeth semi-detached after the late shift to mope with a takeaway and watch Arsenal concede two insulting, piss-easy goals to Burnley that even a three-legged dog – no, a three-legged dog’s elderly arthritic grandma - could have saved. He phoned all three of his blokes to check in and promised to stop over at Baker Street the following day. Then he sighed to himself, lobbing the remnants of dinner and three cans of what used to be lager, but was now nothing, into the bin. He forced himself up the stairs, forced his way into his pyjamas, and forcefully trudged to the bathroom.

“What do Greg Lestrade and Arsenal FC have in common?” he asked his reflection through toothpasty foam. “They were both bloody miserable at home tonight.”

He ran his hands through his hair, looking sceptically at the depreciating ruin before him. It wasn’t that he minded the silver fox look. God knows it hadn’t hurt his sex life too much thus far. It was just… at what point did it stop being fox-like, and start being git-like? “Barely enough energy for a wank,” he said to the man in the mirror. “Go to bed, Lestrade. You’re drunk,” he replied. “And old. And drunk…”.

On Wednesday, Mycroft Holmes gave his ‘special’ credit card a ruthless bashing. He made some discreet phonecalls to some very select numbers; had some discerning words in some perspicacious ears; gave some specific orders, made some bespoke orders, and decided, yes, he would let Anthea select the school colours by way of an apology. Superlative instincts, that woman. The head of the National Trust had turned out to be a Russian sleeper agent after all. He returned to Hampstead to find everything waiting for him as planned, and set about making his preparations.

John had a shift at the clinic, while Sherlock spent the day writing vicious rejection emails to every wannabe client scoring less than a seven, demanding financial compensation (well, fines really) for making him read their bloody boring blather. Greg popped round after work and the three of them had dinner together, during which Sherlock was desperate to spoil the big surprise, but didn’t, after John dropped a plate of spaghetti down the back of his neck accidentally on purpose. Then they had a bit of a lazy fumble in front of a Bond film, though none of them could tell which one it was. Crocodiles came into it, rather bafflingly. The word ‘birthday’ went unmentioned.

On Thursday, Greg did a lot of paperwork. Mycroft did a lot of fretting. John did a lot of exercise. And Sherlock did a lot of rehearsing. No orgasms were had, and each man slept in his own bed, a rare enough occurrence, variously musing on the following day:

_Oh, God, last year of my 40s. One year closer to 50. Basically dead. Never get a trial for Arsenal, never play in a band, never see a 30 inch waist again…_

_Oh, blimey, this had better be good or I’ll never hear the end of it. If this doesn’t shake him loose we might never get a shag again. Stay calm, soldier._

_Oh, Lord, I hope I can pull this off convincingly without completely humiliating myself. How does Lock have the energy to be defiant so regularly, it’s exhausting just thinking about it!_

_Oh, yes. I’m going to be brilliant. Could rub off against the mattress… No, save it for tomorrow. The game is on._

It was suddenly Friday, and no-one had come for 48 hours. Nerves were jangling in three distinct postcodes of London. In SW1, a decrepit ruin of a once proud D.I. was faking smiles as his colleagues sang a very unorthodox version of Happy Birthday. In W1, two men who ought to know better but refused to, were giggling and practicing lines together on the way to the Tube. And in NW3, a normally cool and calculating control freak was losing his mind, vividly foreseeing the myriad ways in which this would all, of course, be a complete disaster and all, of course, his fault.

At 5pm, John and Sherlock arrived at Mycroft’s and were ushered hurriedly in and upstairs to their new playroom. The study. The study was…

“Fuck. _Me_.” said John, with awe as he took in the sight.

“Not yet, John,” said Mycroft, attempting to seem devil-may-care, though his tight-lipped smile belied it.

Sherlock exhaled in wonder at the frankly astonishing _mise en scène._

“Brother mine! Darling, _gorgeous_ – have I ever told you you’re a genius? You are. I admit it without reservation. You’re a complete and total genius and I take back every awful thing I’ve ever said. I will buy you a new dressing gown. You’re a marvel and I adore you!” gushed Sherlock, absolutely flying high on excitement at the perfect miracles Mycroft had achieved since Wednesday.

The study was no longer a tastefully-decorated gentleman’s retreat for the British Government. It was a 1930s school room, with six individual desks and benches, three by three; a large teacher’s desk facing them, fully equipped with vintage stationery – including a wooden ruler – authentic down to every last drawer. A large comfortable, leather-padded chair sat behind it. Behind that, a blackboard and chalks, a supply cupboard to one side, a high stool in one corner, bookcases with schoolboy grammars, Latin phrasebooks, arithmetic textbooks, history books up to but no later than the Boer War. The globe John was so fond of now looked less like it contained a secret drinks cabinet and more like a teaching aid.

The rugs had been taken up to reveal bare boards, the lamps had been refitted, the silk curtains exchanged for blinds, the flock wallpaper covered over with white. Even the clock had been changed to a perfunctory institutional one.

The German Expressionist pictures on the walls had been substituted for maps of the Roman and Greek Empires, the periodic table of elements, excluding all latter 20th century discoveries, biological and botanical diagrams, times tables, French verbs, the dates of every monarch from the Anglo Saxon period up to George V.

Hanging on a hook next to the blackboard - the bit that seemed to capture most the interest of the assembled company – a curved-handled cane, thin and wicked and whippy-looking. Leaning up against the wall, a heavier, straighter cane, dark and brutally business-like. A pair of rubber-soled plimsolls were lined up next to this on the floor, and a short, thick leather strap hung from a nail.

Sherlock’s mouth hung open a little. He all but gulped. Mycroft felt himself relaxing.

“I, erm, have more to show you… If you’ll permit.” He flung open the supply cupboard doors to reveal three sets of clothing on wooden hangers.

“Bloody hell, Mycroft,” said John, shaking his head, impressed beyond measure. “I mean, I know you’re good, but bloody hell…”

The clothes were expensive-looking, expertly-made, and correct down to the finest detail. Mycroft handed John his hanger. He ran his hands over the beautiful, grey herringbone tweed suit. No clichéd brown here. A dark blue wool tanktop, a simple navy tie with white fleur-de-lys pattern, and a white shirt, not too stiff as to seem fraudulently new, with simple cufflinks.

“Hey, detachable collar!” said John. “Never seen one in real life. Can you help me with it?”

“Yes, I’ll show you. But I imagine Gregory will destroy it in a passion at some point, brute that he is.”

“God, I hope you’re right.”

“The tank top is authentic, by the way, but you don’t have to wear it if you think you’ll get too hot,” said Mycroft, looking at the ensemble critically. “I do think you’ll look marvellous in it, for what it’s worth.”

John smiled, charmed and loving every second of this.

“Course I’ll wear it. It’s smart but not OTT. Nice Oxford brogues too.”

“Naturally. I’ve thrown in argyle socks and garters if you want them. I rather think _Gregory_ would like you to.”

“He bloody would as well, the kinky bastard. Yeah, go on then.”

“There are braces too. They have intriguing possibilities in general, I find…”

“Yeah? Well, yeah… Filthy boy, aren’t you?”

Mycroft blushed and coughed delicately.

“There’s also this…” He produced a black schoolmaster’s gown, perfectly fitted to John’s height.

“Ha! Yeah, I assumed we’d be doing this. Cool. I like it,” he said. “It’ll make me feel like Batman.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Who?” He looked at Sherlock, who seemed nonplussed.

John shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I didn’t opt for the mortarboard, I’m afraid,” continued Mycroft. “I can’t say they do much for me. I mean, every graduate with a Third in art history wears one these days, and I assumed you’d probably rather not be hampered by it.”

“Yeah, fair enough. I think I feel more _real_ without it, somehow. Too costumey, d’you know what I mean? Right, hand my Batman cape over. Oh, hang on, what about the…”

“Top pocket of the jacket, John,” interrupted Mycroft.

John reached in and fished out a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, rounded and heritage-looking.

“I dunno, do you think I can carry them off?” he asked, a bit self-consciously. “Don’t want to look ridiculous.” He put them on, grimacing a bit, wondering just how much of a berk he looked.

Mycroft flushed as John peered at him through the neutral glass lenses. He did all he could to prevent himself from just flinging himself at his feet.

Beside him, Sherlock threw a hand to his forehead. “Take me now!” he exclaimed, feigning a swoon.

“Oi, I knew I’d look stupid. I think I suit more modern, square shapes…”

“John, I was only joking! Well, no, I was deadly serious - don’t you dare take those off! You look _immensely_ fuckable. I mean, just, like, bend-me-over-and-do-me-now fuckable. Tell him, Mycie!”

Sherlock hit his brother’s arm with the back of his hand, jolting him back to coherence.

“John Watson, if you _ever_ take those off, I will never speak to you again,” he said, simply.

“Yeah?” said John, tentatively. “All right, if you’re sure.” He grinned, a little shy but chuffed to bits about the sincerity of double-Holmes rave reviews. “Honestly, Myc, this is all so amazing.”

He reached for the other man, pulling him in for a fervent kiss and shoving him roughly away again to prevent things getting out of hand. Or, rather, getting too much in hand.

Mycroft stood speechless for a few seconds, hard and wanting. Then Sherlock grabbed him and did the same, brushing against his straining cock for a brief, tantalising second. Mycroft whimpered almost inaudibly.

“Yum. Fantastic,” purred Sherlock, all tease and turn-on, unbearably hard himself and scenting sex in the air. All it needed was Gregory to break the oncoming storm.

“It’s really nothing,” stammered Mycroft, modestly. “It’s all just my contribution to the birthday gift.”

“Speaking of which - what do I get?!” Sherlock was practically jumping up and down, riddled with excitement now. “Gimme!”

Mycroft handed him his uniform. Anthea had chosen tasteful navy for the blazer, with red trim at the lapel and cuffs. He also had a V-necked tanktop, trimmed in red at the neck. On the breast pocket of the jacket was emblazoned a ‘school shield’ with Latin motto. The coat of arms was split into four quarters, each bearing a symbol.

“Oh, very _good_ , big brother,” said Sherlock, dripping approval as he examined it.

John shrugged and sighed with mock exhaustion, knowing what was expected of him. “Go on then, explain. Show off to me. What does it mean?”

“Well,” began Sherlock, seizing his chance with glee. But he then hesitated. “No. We’ll wait for Greg. Explain later. The Latin though –".

Mycroft interrupted, knowingly. “ _Animis opibusque parati_. Prepared in minds and resources. In colloquial parlance - ready for anything.”

John laughed. “You Holmes boys. Bloody hell.”

Sherlock snorted. “Glad you didn’t resort to cliché and give us Amor Vincit Omnia, brother. That’s ‘love conquers all’,” he added for John’s benefit.

“Yeah, I knew that one, actually, smartarse. I am a medic, I did learn a bit of a totally useless dead language.”

Mycroft frowned like a disgruntled hawk. “John Watson, when I am not anticipating an evening of bacchanalian erotic depravity at your hands, I will take you to task over your philistine attitude and we shall have a very long and productive conversation about the fundamental usefulness and elegance of Latin. As it is, we have a little over an hour before Gregory arrives, and we should get ourselves dressed and mentally prepared.”

“Right you are, Holmes Major,” said John, winking. “Holmes Minor, get moving.”

Sherlock examined the crisp white shirt he found on his hanger. It was high-necked, with another separate starched collar. There was a striped silk tie, red and dark navy to match the rest.

Sherlock suddenly made a little noise of outrage.

“Oh, Mycroft!” he whinged, all former gratitude and softness disappeared into brattishness. Neither of the other men could say they were disappointed at having him back again.

In one hand Sherlock held up a really rather _short_ pair of charcoal grey shorts, and a ball of long navy socks with red trim at the tops.

“Problem? I thought they’d be fetching,” smirked Mycroft, disingenuously.

“I don’t want to be in short trousers!”

“I know this may be difficult to hear, baby brother, but this isn’t about what you want. It’s about Gregory. And Gregory will go absolutely, solid-gold-plated caveman crazy for you in a pair of little schoolboy shorts and knee socks. Your feet won’t touch the ground.”

“Well… Fair enough, I suppose,” he conceded.

“You were supposed to be being good tonight, remember?”

“Yes, whose stupid idea was that?!”

“Oh, pack it in and get your kit off, he’ll be here soon and I need to get my head into gear,” instructed John, stripping off his jeans.

“Just one more thing, actually,” said Mycroft. With a flourish he produced three sets of white cotton underwear – neat t-shirt vests, and -

“Ooh, tighty whities!” exclaimed Sherlock, clapping his hands.

“I’m less concerned about historical accuracy than with potential for provocation. I know Greg likes you in little tight ones, Lock. Briefs for you, don’t you think? For the novelty? It’ll be sweet. I think John ought to be in jockey shorts, his bum is too perfect in them. I’ll do shorts too, I can’t pull off a pair of knickers like you, Lock.”

Sherlock guffawed delightedly. “Oh, but you can pull mine off…”

“Spare me the pathetic double entendre, please!” remonstrated Mycroft.

Mycroft extracted his own outfit from the cupboard while the others dressed themselves. The same basic ensemble as his brother, except his dark grey trousers were long and slim fitting, though too high-waisted and seamed to be contemporary. He omitted the tanktop in order to differentiate himself from Sherlock and play up the fantasy of a notional age difference. It made him feel more in character; less like himself. A tanktop was almost a woollen waistcoat, after all, and he felt liberated from convention by going without.

The sensation of wearing only a shirt and tie under a jacket was almost one of nudity. As he dressed, he allowed himself to loosen his tie and collar, and, feeling like an anarchist, untucked a portion of the shirt tail from his waistband.

Sherlock caught the almost dishevelled appearance and gasped. “Rebel,” he accused.

“Quite,” said Mycroft, rakishly tossing his head and ruffling his hair from its coiffed and controlled state with one hand. His cowslick curled wildly at his forehead. Sherlock made a little groan of want.

“Not fair. Too sexy,” he moaned. “And I have to be good all night!”

“Yes, you do. Brush your hair into a side parting like we agreed.”

“OK, fine. Stupid rules,” he said, sulking.

Finally, they were all ready. Each man turned to the other, gawping and giggling, touching each other’s lapels or running a finger across a sleeve, leering at each other’s arses in the novelty trousers, copping a feel.

John reluctantly separated himself a little, needing to focus. He walked around to ‘his’ desk and picked up each disciplinary implement in turn, testing its heft and dimension. Both Holmes boys pretended not to be watching with their tongues hanging out.

_I’m calm. I’m in control. Hello, Mr Lestrade, I’m afraid your boys have been misbehaving themselves and I’m at the end of my tether…_

Mycroft practiced slouching, kicking at nothing as he wandered idly round the room that used to be his study. He perused the bookshelves with interest, then, seizing the initiative, de-alphabetised a few of them. He instantly felt guilty but tried to think more Sherlockly. Biting his tongue, he pulled a book out, chucked it on the floor, and walked away from it, sneering.

John smiled. _Brilliant. This is already just brilliant._

Sherlock went and sat at one of the desks, noting with approval that the benches were rather high to lend the illusion of one’s feet slightly swinging off the ground. He opened the tabletop of the desk in front of him – it contained exercise books, ink, a fountain pen and spare nibs, rubbers, sharpener, a geometry set. An old tennis ball. A kazoo. A 1930s comic book and a joke shop rubber spider caught his eye and he suppressed a laugh. He suppressed even harder when he found what could only be euphemistically described as a vintage ‘men’s health’ magazine. God, Mycroft was good. If he opened any one of these desks, he knew they’d all have a similar collection of archetypal schoolboy equipment and contraband, ideal for improvised imaginative scenarios.

By 6.45, all three were in a state of high anticipation, hearts racing, hands shaking. They felt like they had been hard and desperate for 48 hours straight and were now getting annoyed with Greg for not being there.

“Go and keep an eye on the gate, John! What if he’s early? You need to be in position when he arrives!” hissed Sherlock.

“Yeah, all right. Hang on, he’s got a key! He can just walk in.”

“Put yours in from the inside, John, dear. Then he’ll have to ring the bell.”

“Oh, yeah. Ta. See you later, then,” he grinned, knowing that the next time they met, it would be as Mr Watson and what John liked to think of as Naughty Mycroft.

He ran out, then stopped himself, breathed, and walked calmly down the stairs to the window by the front porch.

At 6.55, Gregory Lestrade, looking rather dishevelled and gloomy, opened the gate with his automatic key, and crunched up the gravel drive to the house.

At 6.56, he realised his key was not opening the door. He had only had one pint, as promised, and the bastards weren’t letting him in. He was sure they’d said Hampstead, not Baker Street.

_Wouldn’t be surprised if they changed it without telling me._

Giving up with a huff, he rang the bell, and stood with his hands in his pockets, waiting impatiently.

John saw through the window that he had his work cut out for him, and steeled himself to conquer. He forced himself to breathe steadily, as though about to go over the top, wiped his sweaty hands down his jacket, and pulled himself into combat mode.

As the door swung open, Greg’s jaw hit the doorstep.

 _John. Tweeds. Glasses. Fuck_.

“Ah, Mr Lestrade? You are the guardian with responsibility for Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?” said Mr Watson, smiling a little anxiously. He held out his hand in a keen and friendly manner, and Greg took it limply. John shook it firmly, attempting to jolt some sense back into his stunned lover. He gazed piercingly at him down his glasses.

“I’m Mr Watson, Mycroft’s form tutor,” he continued, playing meek and mild, and terribly nice. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you? I haven’t been here all that long. Mr Lestrade, erm, I’m terribly sorry to have to call you to the school at such short notice. And on your birthday too, I’m given to understand. But I’m afraid your boys have been rather misbehaving themselves, and frankly, I’m at the end of my tether. Do come in, and perhaps we might be able to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion.”

Greg seemed to have forgotten how to make words. John made a quick field assessment.

“Mr Lestrade? Are you quite well? If now isn’t a convenient time, I’m sure we can reschedule. However, the sooner such things are dealt with the better, don’t you agree? I’m not sure it would be quite right to let their punishment stand over. They are in dire need of it.”

It was the word ‘punishment’ that finally flicked the ‘on’ switch in Greg’s brain. John’s heart leapt at the feral look that was turned upon him through deep brown eyes, and the accompanying hungry grin.

“Oh, Mr Watson. I’m absolutely certain of that,” growled Greg, with grim determination.

“Come in, do,” said Mr Watson, gallantly. He turned, letting the gown swish to give Greg an eyeful of his arse in the snug trousers, roundly emphasised by the split seam at the hem of his jacket.

Greg cleared his throat and followed. ‘Oh, it’s my _birthday…!’_ he thought, thanking every god he could think of.

“Tell me, Mr Watson...,” he began, but then a thought occurred. “Do you have a bathroom I might use, before we go in?” His current rumpled and pub-fresh appearance was not going to cut it tonight.

John nodded, understanding. “Of course. Down the hall. Next to the science block,” he improvised cheekily. Greg grinned widely and John almost broke, his mouth twitching up at the corners.

“Thank you,” said Greg meaningfully. He turned on his heel and went, stopping himself from punching the air in glee.

He freshened himself up, splashing water over his face and neck until he felt alert and tingling with anticipation. Then thought, ‘nah, in for a penny, in for a pound’, and hastily shed his clothes. He brushed his teeth, gave himself a thorough rub down with a flannel, spayed himself with one of Mycroft’s posh colognes, wetted his hair and combed it up and back neatly. He redressed with care, smoothing down his work suit, buttoning his collar to the top until he looked respectable again. Shame he hadn’t worn a tie, but still. Yes. A decent, respectable, hardworking man. Disturbed to hear this recent bit of news about his young charges. He was, he reflected, feeling rather displeased. Yes. Gregory Lestrade was really very displeased indeed. Winking at himself in the mirror, he went to join that nice Mr Watson, eager to learn more.

“This way, sir,” indicated Mr Watson, leading the way up the stairs, entirely aware of the effect the proximity of his backside was having on the Holmes boys’ handsome guardian.

“Are my boys…” began Greg, and then realised he didn’t know how to finish that sentence. What he wanted to say was, ‘John, tell me they’re in uniform!’, but he would wait rather than spoil this deliciously tense atmosphere. He'd been half-hard since John opened the door.

They arrived outside the study door. John coughed to give a warning to the inhabitants, and turned the handle with deliberate care.

Sherlock was sitting at a little desk, in the middle of a row of three. His head was propped upon one hand, in an attitude of nervous boredom. He swung his legs, decked in little knee socks, and - ‘God help me’, thought Greg - short little shorts, which revealed his inviting bare thighs.

_Fully hard now._

Greg nearly dropped dead as he took in Sherlock’s darling little uniform, and then again when he realised what had happened to the bloody room. Pure Mycroftian attention to detail, this. His eldest boy did not do things by halves. He looked around, but didn’t see him. ‘Hmm. What’s the gig?’ he wondered. A dramatic entrance, he was sure. Funny. It was usually the younger brother who did those.

Sherlock looked up in surprise as they entered, eyes wide and worried. “Oh!” he exclaimed, as though caught out in a daydream. And then, “Oh, crikey…,” as he met Greg’s eye, shaking his head a little in dismay. “Hullo, Papa,” he said in a husky voice, and ducked his head timidly.

And then it was John's turn to nearly drop dead.

In the excitement of the development phase, they had failed to discuss what terminology would be used. Sherlock glanced mischievously through his lashes at both men.

_Got you._

He had selected the word after much careful consideration. It was perfect. Not one he or Mycroft had ever had occasion to use in their real lives. Siger was Siger. Stepfather was stepfather. Not one of them had any associations with it, other than from costume dramas. Daddy was beyond the pale. But _Papa –_ only ever pronounced with a short first and long final syllable - was authority and power and class; the Establishment alpha male. _Papa_ was the head of the household, and his word was law. _Papa_ would let you know where you stood, and if you needed to kick, you could kick against Papa, and he would deal with you accordingly.

Greg Lestrade could roll with Papa. Definitely.

Seeing John’s open-mouthed expression, he said reassuringly, “Don’t be confused, Mr Watson. I’m not their real father, of course, but at home they do call me that. I like it.”

John huffed something that might almost have been taken for “I bet you do.”

Greg tried not to crack his face. He had a job to do. “Sherlock,” he grunted with irritation. “What’s all this I’m hearing from Mr Watson about your behaviour?” “Again!” he threw in for good measure.

“It wasn’t me, Papa! I’ve been trying ever so hard not to be naughty. It was M –"

At this moment, the door flung open, and Greg’s heart flipped in his chest as though he’d fallen off a kerb.

Mycroft Holmes, resplendent in vintage public school uniform - scruffy, unkempt, oozing rebellion and contempt and angst - flung himself into the room, slammed the door, folded his arms, and met Greg’s eye with a challenging and defiant glint. Gone was the consummate manipulator, arch negotiator, and cool-headed civil servant. In his place, a moody, angry sixth-former intent on trouble

‘Oh, Christ,’ thought Papa, with shock and awe. ‘He’s the bad boy.’

“What?” demanded the hostile overgrown schoolboy, his voice recalcitrant and aggressive. “Ugh. Why have you called _him_ in?” he fumed at poor bemused Mr Watson.

Greg licked his lips.

_Oh, Happy Birthday To Me…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do please comment if you feel so inclined. Always welcome. x


	3. Mycroft Holmes: rebel with a cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game steps up a notch. We learn what the boys have been up to, to land them in this unfortunate position. Mycroft is a hero.

In John’s absence, someone had the foresight to move a chair to one side of the large teacher's desk to allow Papa to consult with Mr Watson. John gestured towards it and moved round to face the ‘school room’, while Greg sat, keeping Sherlock within his eyeline. Sherlock sat a little straighter and tried to look innocent and pure, with very mixed results. John stayed standing, leaning forward on the tabletop with his knuckles. 

Mycroft stood by the door, shuffled and shoved his hands into his pockets, aiming for defiant nonchalance and hitting his target. John balked. 'I have literally never seen him do that before,' he thought. Out of his peripheral vision he saw Greg clock it and bite his lip to keep a straight face.

"Sit down," said Greg, gruffly, to the moody rebel he was confronted with. 

"Why?" came the exaggeratedly bored reply. Greg’s hand itched already.

"Because I said so. And drop the attitude, young man."  _Mm, bit predictable, but whatever works, yeah?_ Greg decided to stop censoring himself and just go for it.

Mycroft made a derogatory noise and flopped down at the seat next to Sherlock’s, leaning back with arms folded and scowling mightily. He very nearly put his feet up on the desk but held back. One had to have something to build to. 

"Thin ice, my lad. Very. Thin. Ice,” enunciated Greg. He turned a stern eye upon John. “Now, Mr Watson. Please explain what's gone on here."

John smiled gently. "Yes. I should say, Mycroft is undeniably a bright boy. Very promising prospects. Great potential. I wouldn't be surprised if he found himself in very high office indeed at some point in the future. If only he could be convinced to do any work.”

Mycroft snorted derisively. Sherlock giggled in spite of himself, and shut up when Mr Watson gave him a menacing glare. He continued.

“He has become very indolent lately. Sherlock too. Of course your youngest is far more advanced intellectually than his years suggest. But he's picking up bad habits. Though he is in a lower form, he's very precocious and seems to emulate his brother. For better or worse. In this case, worse. Definitely worse."

"I do  _not_!" butted in Sherlock, earning him a hard stare from all three. He buttoned his lip and primly sat up, remembering to at least try to seem contrite and penitent. He had been rehearsing, but it didn’t come naturally.

Mr Watson resumed, attempting to phrase the thing delicately for the boys’ Papa, who seemed really rather taciturn and severe. "They're both destined for greatness, I'm sure, but their behaviour has deteriorated and they seem to find attendance at school beneath them."

"It  _is_ beneath us,” broke in Mycroft with disgust. “Well, beneath  _me._ Lock's still such a baby..."

Sherlock looked hurt. "I am  _not!_ Am I, Papa? At least I'm not a big fat moron!"

Mycroft moved towards him with a sudden jerk but was quelled by a fierce look from Gregory.

"Shut your mouths, the pair of you! What a way to behave. Carry on, Mr Watson. What's on the charge sheet? If you'll forgive the expression."

"Huh. Yes, I forgot, you're quite senior in the Metropolitan Police, aren't you?" he said, in a reflective, curious tone. 

"Are you implying that despite my profession, I can't keep basic law and order under my own roof, Mr Watson...?" bristled Mr Lestrade, sensing some kind of criticism from this pert, bookish little man.

Mr Watson coloured, embarrassed at giving an unintentional slight.

"No! Not at all, goodness me. I meant no offence. I just meant you must be very busy. They're bad enough during term time, but they must be perfectly dreadful during the holidays, so I wouldn't blame you if you left them to their own devices... I mean to say... Ahem. As to the misdemeanours, I have a list," he said, latching on to a change of subject before incurring more of the man's displeasure.

He produced a piece of note paper from his inside pocket and consulted it. "Both of them have been caught smoking behind the cricket pavilion repeatedly, and nothing has remedied this."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sherlock looked down at his feet as Greg glared at them, folding his arms, deeply unimpressed.

"You've disciplined them for it before, I take it?" 

"Yes, I have confiscated their cigarettes, set lines and gated them," said the schoolmaster, adjusting his glasses. Mr Lestrade frowned.

"Hardly my idea of teaching them a lesson. Boredom only stimulates their imaginations and they think of worse and worse things to get up to."

Mr Watson persisted, holding his ground. "I've administered slipperings to both of them on a number of occasions. It hasn't made much of an impression." For all his outward performance of earnestness, John was mentally rolling in the aisles.  _Much of an impression? No, it bloody wouldn't, would it? Not when they beg for more so regularly._

Greg harrumphed even as he caught and returned the twinkle in John's eye. "That's no good. You want to stripe their bare backsides for them. Only language my boys understand." 

The temperature in the room seemed to increase a notch. Such words were being used. Mycroft subtly turned aside and adjusted himself. Sherlock crossed his legs under the desk.

"Yes. I have also been forced to resort to six of the best. Sherlock is a little more affected by the cane than his brother, and tends to sob rather pitifully afterwards. The same cannot be said for Mycroft, however..." Sherlock looked appalled at this suggestion. Mycroft smirked. 

"Six won't get you anywhere with my eldest. Ten minimum. More preferably. What else?" 

Mycroft glared daggers and brooded dangerously.  _Someone give me a BAFTA right now. Best Performance in an Erotic Roleplay..._

"General inattention. Disruption. Fighting with each other almost constantly," continued John.

"Physical fights?"

"Yes, lots of very undignified hair-pulling, pinching and shoving down stairs. All very childish."

"Yes, aren't they?" chimed in Greg. The Holmses glowered simultaneously. 

Mr Watson continued, helpfully. "Refusal to do their prep. Bunking off CCF and rugby practice."

"Rugby's for Neanderthals. All sport is," commented Mycroft, contemptuously. 

Mr Watson pressed his lips together and twitched. Holmes Major knew he coached the First Eleven in his spare time. Greg shook his head. This was getting personal.

"General impertinence and impudence to staff," he continued. "Obscene Latin graffitied on the door of the staff common room, of such grammatical complexity it could only have been done by one or other, or both of them. Practical jokes in the chemistry lab. Manufactured smoke bombs, tear-gas, explosions. Damage to property. And, erm..."

"Yes?"

"I'm not quite sure how to put this, Mr Lestrade. They have been caught, more than once, behaving very... _inappropriately_  with each other. In the dormitories, at night. And during the afternoons. Sometimes mornings. They repeatedly miss Prayers or Games, only to be discovered in a compromising clinch somewhere. In the showers. In chapel. In Matron's sick bay. In the tuck shop. There have been reports of, erm, mutual touching, and...rubbing. Sucking. Licking. Intercrural intercourse, if not, full...  I don't want to put too fine a point on it, but there hardly seems to be a room in the school that hasn't been rather messily christened... The cleaning bills alone..."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself laughing out loud. 

_Oh, well played, John, you little demon._

Mycroft suddenly seemed very interested in the ceiling.

Greg tutted with heavy disappointment. "I see. Dear me. Well, what do you have to say for yourselves, you two? Speak."

"I don't think it's inappropriate!" said Mycroft, forcefully, feeling defensive of himself and his brother. "I think it's entirely appropriate and you'll never stop us doing it!"

Sherlock nodded frantically in agreement. "Nobody shall ever stop us! It's not naughty. It feels very, very nice. Mycie's all lovely and warm, and he says I'm pretty...," he crooned, dreamily. 

"It's not a question of how nice it is, Lock. We've spoken about this. I'm glad you love each other very much, but we agreed you would keep your special time confined to home, not go flaunting it around the school like depraved little animals."

"Yes, Papa," pouted Sherlock, picking at his fingers and idly kicking the desk leg.

Mycroft rallied. "They're all jealous. Just because  _you_  aren't getting any, _Sir_..." 

"How dare you," replied Mr Watson, curtly, feeling rather raw about having this insight exposed in front of the rather dishy Mr Lestrade.

"Mr Watson, I hope I can rely on your discretion," said the other man, conspiratorially. "This last charge is aggravating, but hardly unusual. My boys are special, as you say. They need to express themselves in particular ways, which I don't object to, provided it's kept in the right environment, behind closed doors. I hope I can rely on you to understand."

"Well, yes. I see that they have a certain...biological, even chemical, connection. They seem very well suited."

Greg sighed munificently. "They're not bad boys. Just very, very naughty."

"So I believe."

Lestrade cast a shrewd and penetrating look at the really quite sweet teacher. "It seems to me, Mr Watson, that you really haven't handled them very well. Glad you called me in. They know when they get a walloping at school they can expect double at home. Yet it doesn't seem to be effective, does it? I think it's possible their tolerances have gone up. Or that you are too lenient by half."

"I didn't want to do anything too extreme without your permission, Mr Lestrade. I thought perhaps a joint approach might be necessary..."

"I agree. I agree. Mycroft Holmes." The lad looked up sharply. "On your feet. You too, Sherlock, get up."

"Oh, no, Papa!"

"This second."

"Ooh...," he whined, dragging himself to his feet.

"Mycroft. I gave you an instruction. I expect to be obeyed." 

The elder lad groaned, flushing with pseudo-adolescent humiliation.

"Shan't."

Greg got to his feet in one swift motion.

Mycroft flinched. "Oh, really, Papa, no! I'm too big for it now!"

"You're not and you never will be. Stop making it worse for yourself."

"Not in front of  _him_ ," he almost begged, furious as he looked up at John. 

"Should have thought of that before, shouldn’t you? Go and fetch that stool and put it in the middle of the room, there," ordered Greg, trying to calm his racing heart. 

"Look here," said Mycroft, adopting a patronising, reasonable tone, trying a new tack. "I can see that Lock probably needs his bum smacking once in a while, but I'm basically a grown up and I don't consent to it. Anyway, he's the one who decapitated all the other boys' teddies last term."

"You suggested it! Ooh, sir! Myc's the one who let all the geese into the swimming pool on Prize Day!"

"Lock, you're such a little rat!" cried Mycroft, face red with outrage. 

"You're a  _wanker_!" howled Sherlock at the top of his voice.

"Sherlock Holmes!" shouted the shocked schoolmaster. Such language. He decided he'd lived a very sheltered life, but sensed this was all about to change.

Before either man could prevent it, they were off and raging in the most Holmesian way possible. 

"Utinam barbari spatium proprium tuum invadant!" yelled Mycroft.  _(May barbarians invade your personal space!)_

"Utinam coniurati te in foro interficiant!" screamed Sherlock. _(May conspirators assassinate you in the forum!)_

Greg sat back down calmly. Always an ominous sign.

"Futue te ipsi! Lupa!" _(Fuck you! Slut!)_

"Vescere bracis meis! Irrumator!"  _(Eat my shorts! Bastard!)_

"I think you've finished now," said Papa, with deadly menace.

They fell silent, both looking at their shoes, aware that they may have just crossed the Rubicon. 

"Fetch it," Greg clicked his fingers at Mycroft, indicating the wooden stool. He resentfully did as he was told. It seemed too late to delay the inevitable. And yet...

He set the stool in the middle of the floor. 

"Bend over it," instructed Greg. "Put your forearms on the seat, spread your legs. I was going to put you across my knee first, but I think you’ve been spoiling for a stronger response. So it’s the strap for you, my lad." 

Mycroft realised he was experiencing a new, hitherto unknown sensation, which presumably was not alien to his brother - that of being about to deliberately and happily cause a massive, massive fuss. His upper lip raised in a sneer, his left eyebrow lifted in sarcastic appraisal. He huffed a flippant little huff. And then he kicked out with one leg, and sent the stool flying across the room. It was, he reflected, perhaps the most utterly thrilling thing he had ever done in his life. 

John and Greg and Sherlock's mouths dropped open as one. Sherlock couldn't remember ever admiring his big brother more. 

_Oh, Mycie, you bloody hero!_

Mycroft turned to Greg, looked him in the eye, saw astonishment and not a little amount of covert admiration. He licked his lips and pronounced in his clearest, most elegant voice words that had literally never left his mouth before. "Fuck off, Lestrade," he said, simply and pleasantly, smirking with unbearable superiority.

_Oh, game on. Game bloody on._

Greg rolled his sleeves. 


	4. There's no need to take your socks off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which four grown men attempt not to giggle and wisecrack their way through an erotic roleplay scene (mixed results) and avert midlife crisis (successfully). The naughtiest boys in the school get taken to task by Mr Lestrade and Mr Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's some kinky-spanky for you. As with all my stories, so it seems, it gets dirtier and descends further into depravity the longer it goes on. Next instalment is a festival of fun filth. Stay with me if that sounds like you.

Greg’s midlife crisis was over. That much was perfectly clear to at least three men in the modified schoolroom, but it was indisputably born in upon the one currently being manhandled out of his blazer and dragged by his ear across to a high-backed wooden chair.

In fact, Mycroft registered as Papa sat down and pulled him over his lap – after what would generously be described as a rudimentary struggle – this might actually now qualify as a midlife tour-de-force. A triumph of 49-year-old virility. Were there a Nobel prize for middle-aged sexual resurgence, Gregory Lestrade would stand a very strong chance of winning.

Mycroft’s breath left his body with an ‘oof!’ as he was thrown forwards and bent over Gregory’s knee. His head descended and he steadied himself by placing his hands flat on the floor. The position made him feel delightfully smaller - more vulnerable and out of control. Not a sensation he allowed for in any other part of his life. He let himself relax into it and treated his lovers to a bit more melodrama.

“Let me go, you brute!” he shouted, thrashing around hopelessly. He’d always wanted to say that.

His cock rubbed on Greg’s thigh, and Greg subtly moved his leg in return to give him more friction and a better angle. _Perfect._

“I’m so sorry, Mr Watson,” said Mr Lestrade, calmly, as he restrained the wriggling troublemaker. “I don’t know what’s gotten into this one lately. Getting lippier by the day. Must be hormones.”

“Get off me!” Mycroft yelled, really quite convincingly. He drummed his feet on the floor for effect, kicking out seemingly wildly, but with careful control so as not to overbalance them both. Greg merely pulled him in tighter over his thighs and twisted one leg round to trap the schoolboy's flailing limbs between his own. With one hand he pressed securely between Mycroft’s shoulder blades and pinioned his long body; the other hand he raised high in the air and smacked down as hard as he could upon the fleshiest part of his upturned backside.

“Oww!” exclaimed Mycroft, indignant and shocked, as a sudden sting bloomed across his bottom. _Very promising._

“Hold still, you little beast!” Greg snapped. “It's almost sweet that you think you can tell me to fuck off and get away with it."

"I'm sorry, all right?! Jesus, there's no need to be so _tetchy_ about it!"

"I'll show you tetchy, you cheeky little bleeder."

“Ouch!” he yelped again, squalling around to try and avoid the inevitable hand.

“Sherlock, take your jacket off and come over here. You want to copy your brother so badly, you can see the consequences up close. Here, now,” ordered Greg, still spanking merrily away.

Sherlock complied with great speed. “Yes, Papa!” he squeaked, and came to stand by the side of the teacher’s desk, overlooking the action. He stood chewing one finger as he watched his big brother getting the hiding of his life. “Oh, poor Mycie,” he said, sorrowfully.

“Never mind poor Mycie,” tutted Greg, carrying on the duties of his guardianship.

Greg stopped and fumbled underneath Mycroft, who huffed and panted as though he meant it, giving every appearance of trying to break free; not-so-subtly disguising strategic frotting on the enormous hard-on he felt underneath him through Gregory’s trousers.

“No, Papa, don’t!” he howled, rearing up mortified and furious, as Greg found his fly and undid it.

_Oh, do, Gregory, do._

Papa didn’t dignify the protest with a response, merely yanked the grey school trousers down to reveal Mycroft’s magnificently perky arse, clad in tight white jockey-shorts. Mycroft flexed and raised his hips, arching his back and ducking his head again, pushing his backside higher in the air.

Greg hummed with appreciation, and Mycroft, gazing at Greg’s shoes upside down, head filling with blood, smiled with pride at a job well done.

“Shame to take these off, really, but needs must,” said Mr Lestrade, firmly.

“ _Please_ , no, not on the bare!” begged Mycroft desperately, using the best words he could find for the occasion. He tried to throw his hand back to prevent further intervention, but the hand was caught and his wrist pinned to his lower back until he was forcefully restrained.

Gregory hooked his fingers into the waistband of the adorable pants, and pulled, revealing Mycroft’s pinkened buttocks, presented like an offering just for him. Which, of course, is exactly what they were. A birthday gift, freely given.

“Oh!” complained the mewling lad, screwing his eyes shut, horrified by this embarrassing exposure. Being spanked was bad enough, but being spanked bare-bottomed over Papa’s knee in front of his form tutor and his baby brother was simply _(wonderful)_ awful.

Greg’s cock twitched and ached against Mycroft’s thrusting groin as he created more kinetic stimulation between them. _Oh, Jesus, better get on with it before I lose the wherewithal…_

Mycroft felt his shirt being pushed up, revealing the bare expanse of his lower back and waist. His trousers and pants were now caught absurdly round his ankles, prevented from falling off by his shoes, revealing the sock garters at his calves. He felt deliciously unprotected, verging on utterly humiliated, but entirely by happy choice. It was a mindfuck. But all the best fucks were.

Greg inhaled, attempting to steady his breathing. _God, that arse… All Holmes arses, really…_

“Mr Watson, hand me that,” said Mr Lestrade with grim determination, indicating the leather strap on the wall behind. Mr Watson also complied with great speed. It seemed the only sensible course of action. The abrupt voice of command seemed to press some button marked ‘Obey’ in his brain. ‘Too long in the bloody army,’ thought John, as he handed the strap over. Greg took it and hooked it over the back of his chair.

“Right you,” said Greg, giving his captive a little shake before letting go of his wrist. “Hands on the floor. Enough bad behaviour. Spanked arse and the strap from me. Then over to Mr Watson for a whacking,” decreed Greg.

“You can’t do that to me! I won’t stand for it!” fought back Mycroft, giving his all.

“No, you’ll bend over for it.”

“Argh! Don’t make stupid jokes, Papa, it’s so annoying!”

From his observing post, perched on the edge of the desk, Sherlock smirked. _Stealing my best lines, brother?_

Greg caught John’s eye and winked.

Then he raised his hand and set about teaching Mycroft Holmes a lesson none of them would ever forget.

“Not joking now, am I?” he quipped, as the first truly cracking blows fell.

“Oh!” exclaimed the naughtiest boy in the school as his bottom was soundly spanked. “Please – I – ow! Gregory! I mean… _Shit!_ Sorry! Unf! Mmmf! Papa, ohh!” _Forgot how much this actually does sting..._

Greg grinned and put his back into it. The delectable sound of palm on flesh, percussive and irresistible, filled the film-set schoolroom. Greg aimed regularly and repeatedly at the tenderest spots, where the curve of Mycroft’s bum met his slim, pale thighs. Then, just to make sure he was concentrating, he had a go at the tops of the thighs too. For safety.

“No, not there, I hate it!” whined the sulky sixth former, speaking entirely from the heart.

Greg decided to be kind, and resumed tanning the very centre of his bottom, aiming squarely for the site where he knew was hidden the very delectable, very edible little rosette of Mycroft’s arsehole.

Mycroft groaned a deep, guttural groan, and he rutted his leaking cock back and forth up against Greg’s strong thigh. “Oooh, Papa…” he moaned. “Nearly, oh, oh…”

After what may have been fifty or five hundred meetings of hand and buttocks – Mycroft had permitted himself to lose count, going into a transcendent state of dizzying pleasure-pain – Greg desisted, letting the frantic boy have a little breather.

“Sorry yet?” he enquired, casually.

“What for?” panted Mycroft, attempting nonchalance. His arse was aflame, but, he thought through a haze of mixed signals, he was too far gone to start being good now. Besides, if he called a halt Sherlock would never let him hear the end of it.

“Have it your way,” said Papa, cheerily. He took up the short strap, tested it a little against his arm, wrapping the lower part round his knuckle securely for better control.

“This is going to smart,” he predicted.

Mycroft believed him.

“FUCK!” he howled, as the first stinging thwack registered. He’d heard it before he’d felt it, which didn’t seem scientifically possible.

“Told you, silly thing,” sighed Papa, continuing to exact his revenge for the earlier tussle. “This is what happens to naughty little boys who kick furniture and tell their dearest Papa to fuck off, innit?”

John snorted from behind the desk. Sherlock sucked his thumb to stop himself giggling.

The smack of thick leather on thin skin ricocheted off the walls, and Mycroft nearly ricocheted with it, squirming and rubbing, then trying to hold still, then attempting to writhe away from the sharp, intense sting and thrumming afterburn. Greg gave him just enough time between strokes to feel both sensations to their maximum potential. The man was somewhat experienced in the matter and keen to impress his expertise upon the elder Holmes brother, who was being made an example of.

Mycroft gasped and sweated through his punishment, feeling almost permanently on the brink of coming. Almost, almost there, but always reined back by just a little too much intimate pain. It was like Oscar Wilde's definition of a cigarette as the perfect pleasure: it is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. _Was he really talking about cigarettes?_

John, meanwhile, looked on, biting his lip and thinking of the prime minister naked on a unicycle in an attempt to stave off an involuntary orgasm. He took in the whole scene as though watching through a telescope. _Might be time to find a distraction._

Sherlock idly stroked at his prick through his shorts with one hand while he sucked his thumb on the other, not-very-guiltily enjoying his brother’s wails and cries. _Mmm, lovely Mycie’s lovely blushing bum… Papa’s big, hard hand… Mm, strap marks, all burny and bruisy…_

He was jerked from his pleasant daydream by an irate Mr Watson, who pulled his arm away from his crotch and spun him round, away from the little scene they’d been voyeurs to.

“Disgraceful,” he scolded, his face a mask of censure. “No touching while your brother’s being punished. Didn’t your Papa teach you any manners at all?”

“He did his best,” said Sherlock, mounting a spirited defence. “But I’m not very good at them.”

“That much is obvious. Is that the hand you smoke with as well?” said John, sternly, pointing at his left hand. Sherlock blinked, unsure of where this might be going.

“N-no,” said Sherlock, “this one,” hesitantly holding up his right, with its wet thumb.

“And which hand do you usually use to masturbate?”

“Mycroft’s,” he said, without hesitation.

“Do you think that’s funny?” said John, knowing full well that the answer was ‘yes, and so do you.’

“Erm… No, sir?”

“No, sir,” repeated John. “Same naughty hand, isn’t it? The right.” He picked up the wooden ruler from the desk. “Hold it out.”

Sherlock froze, almost puzzling over the command. This was unexpected. Undiscussed. But not uninteresting. John met his eye, communicating to him wordlessly. _Go with me here._

Sherlock caught the look and recognised that trust was being asked of him _._ He nodded minutely. Not entirely feigning reluctance, he held his hand out, arm straight, palm upwards.

“Keep your fingers and thumb flat, don’t curl them in, and don’t move them. Like this,” John said, smoothing them out with his own and pulling them down to further flatten the palm.

He looked into Sherlock’s eyes over his glasses, gauging his reaction. He seemed curious and calm, if a little uncertain, but still in role.

John placed the ruler on Sherlock’s upturned palm, found his mark, the widest part, directly in the dipped centre towards the heel of the hand. He paused, then flicked the light wooden slat down six times in quick succession, firmly but not harshly, being very careful to avoid the vulnerable fingers. Each blow made a satisfying smacking sound.

Sherlock flinched only a little, and bit his lip. He felt a tingling, stinging sensation across his outstretched palm. The pain buzzed mildly and raced up his arm, but it was very bearable. A slight pink, rectangular mark was left on his skin. _Interesting. Doesn’t even hurt really, it was just a small thing and somehow… Had no idea a bit of formalised hand-rulering could make my cock tingle._

He registered the sensation, catalogued it, and looked at John, half-smiling. John’s lips quirked at the corners. _Yeah, thought so._

Before either of them ruined the scene by stepping out of character, Sherlock swung into action.

“Ow! Ooh, sir!” he whinged, shaking his hand in the air and rubbing it on his thigh. He crossed his arms and trapped it under one armpit to soothe the hurt.

“Don’t fuss. Now, listen, Sherlock. Your Papa is going to deal with you once he’s finished making your brother a very sorry lad. But I haven’t even started with you. Either the cane on your hand, or on your bottom. You choose.” 

“What sort of rotten choice is that?!” moaned Sherlock, appalled.

“The only one you’re getting. Quickly now or I’ll give you both.”

“Oh, all right! Ugh. Don’t make me say it, sir!”

Sherlock groaned and shuffled, as though speaking was costing him great effort.

“So both?”

“Fine! Cane my bottom, then!” he shouted, then blushed. Behind him, he heard Greg laugh. Mycroft plainly hadn’t heard, too concerned with this own bottom at present.

Mr Watson smiled benevolently. “Wasn’t so hard, was it? Bend over my desk, young Holmes.”

Sherlock pouted and bent, leaning on his forearms. He dropped his head contritely, and looked back, attempting to coax Mr Watson into finding him adorable and too pretty to punish. His rounded backside pushed out, invitingly tight in the little shorts, and did him no favours on that score. It looked made to be thrashed, as far as Mr Watson was concerned. Amongst other things.

“Six over your shorts, six off,” pronounced John, trying to stay calm.

“Too many, sir!”

“Not for an ill-disciplined little oik like you.”

Sherlock couldn’t really find an answer to that.

“Wait,” called Greg. “Room for one more, Sir? Think we’ll do them together, don’t you? I’ve warmed this one up for you.”

Mycroft winced, his face bright pink and damp with the tears he’d managed to let fall, eminently proud of himself for being able to. He had triumphed over his innate stoicism and dredged up a truly spontaneous response. Not bad, as experiments went. However, the idea of taking the cane over his already scorching arse was not as appealing as it had seemed a few hours ago when he’d planned on getting himself into mischief.

Sensing doubt, Greg stroked his bottom, gauging the heat emanating from it. It was moderate. Well, all right, it was high. Painful, no doubt, but still well within tolerance for the redoubtable Mycroft Holmes.

“You can take it like a big boy for me, can’t you, Mycie? Hmm?” he murmured, softly.

“Y-yes, sir…,” stammered Mycroft, regaining the use of his voice, though choked with emotion.

“Good lad.”

“But my backside will be a flaming ruin!” he sobbed a little, in a futile bid for sympathy.

“Whose fault will that be?”

“Mine...” _Don’t I know it?_

“Don’t you forget it.”

“No, Papa.” He whinged again. “Can’t you let me off?! I’ll do an essay instead! I’ll do anything. Anything you want…” He let his voice become sultry.

“Not a chance.” _Not yet, anyway._

“I hate you,” Mycroft huffed, petulantly, sounding all of five.

“Course you do, sweetheart.” Greg laughed with infuriating magnanimity, and helped manoeuvre Mycroft from his lap, steadying him and making sure his head came up last. Wouldn’t do for anyone to pass out at this stage, even with a doctor in the house.

“Tch, look at the mess you’ve made on my trousers, Mycie. Ought to be ashamed of yourself. What must Mr Watson think of you?”

He was gazing down at the copious splotches of pre-come staining his leg. Mycroft looked down and then away, as though ashamed already. He was far too polite to mention the dark patches adorning Gregory’s own crotch, and the fact he could feel the remnants of damp on his own bare thighs.

“Dunno. Don’t care,” he said, tentatively reaching back to his backside and wincing.

“Little libertine. That’s not a very remorseful response, is it?” scolded Papa, looking disapprovingly at the pink and straining cock in front of him. Mycroft shifted from one foot to the other, making it bob appealingly.

“Can’t help it. But I didn’t… I didn’t finish myself off on you. It’s only…”

“I know what it is. If you’re a very good boy from now on, I might, _might_ , let you finish with your brother later. Show Mr Watson what lovely boys you can be. If you behave.”

“Oh. Thank you, Papa,” breathed Mycroft, mercurially turning all sweet. _Eat your heart out Sherlock._

“You might not feel like thanking me in a minute. Get over there and bend over the desk, facing Sherlock. No more rubbing, either of you.”

The two sulky schoolboys, one slightly more worse for wear than the other, were positioned at the shortest opposing ends of the wide desk, not, as they expected, over the long side. From here they’d be able to see each other’s faces as they were thrashed, and potentially be allowed to hold hands across the distance. It was very considerate of Sir and Papa, really.

 “Mr Watson, which end would you like?”

“Think I’ll take Mycroft first, actually, if it’s all the same to you, Mr Lestrade. He is under my direct pastoral care, after all.”

“Certainly. Wouldn’t do to favour one or the other. I like to divide my attention equally between my boys. Now young Sherlock. I think Mr Watson promised you six over your…little shorts…and six with them down. I think I’ll deliver on that for him, and we’ll see how we go.”

“Hmph! I think you’re mean, and I think you were horrid to Mycie, and I hate you too!”

“Yes, everyone hates me today, except for Mr Watson. Ah, well. I can live with it,” said Greg, matter-of-factly.

He took up the thin, whippy cane, and lined it up with its target – and what a target, reflected Greg. Sherlock’s peach of an arse, tight and firm, his legs slightly apart to offer a more expansive surface area for correction. Above, a darling little school jumper and shirt pushed up over his back. His bare thighs beneath, almost hairless, slender but muscular, and emphasised by high sock tops. Delicious. Every wank fantasy he’d ever had come true.

Greg steeled himself to deliver meaningful but not overly severe strokes. This wasn’t real punishment after all. Enough to warm the boy up, and allow them all to prolong the exquisite agony until everyone had had enough. They weren’t there yet.

At the other end, John was wielding the heavy, dark cane. He tested it in the air, for that satisfying _whup_ sound that always caused such a pleasing reaction in whoever was bending over waiting for it.

Mycroft jolted, and cursed himself for being the one who supplied the bloody thing in the first place. In truth, the cane was his preferred implement as a recipient. Something about its ritual power. Something about its seriousness. He didn’t play this way that often, but when he did, he liked to be pushed. Sherlock would take whatever was dished out if it meant all eyes on his arse and a nice bit of physical data, but preferred less heavy equipment in general. He was more discerning, more sophisticated than that, he told himself. _Yes, Holmes, of course you are. It’s not at all that we’re both vulgar little pain sluts who get off on anything from an electric shock from the toaster to a bare-arsed thrashing with a rattan stick._

He looked up and caught Sherlock’s cheeky, knowing grin, saw Greg’s arm swinging back, cane in hand, and then saw Sherlock’s eyes open wide with shock at the first hot stripe. He didn’t have long to enjoy it, for his own backside was assaulted by John at the exact same time. The blow produced a dull thud that sent a deep shudder through him quite unlike anything he’d experienced before. _Fuck._ The Holmes boys howled in unison. This same procedure was enacted six, devastatingly effective times. It brought genuine tears to their eyes. They both briefly wondered what sitting would be like for the next few days and shuddered.

“Swap ends, Mr Lestrade?” chirped John.

“Yep.”

They did, like tennis players at a Wimbledon final, though with less grunting.

“Ooh, no, Papa! Sir, please!” begged Sherlock as he realised he’d have to endure the thicker implement now for appearance’s sake. “That’s really more of a Mycroft-sized cane. I'm only little!”

“Silence, you awful brat,” said John, with great satisfaction, employing one of Mycroft’s oft-used phrases. He pulled Sherlock’s shorts and pants down perfunctorily, rummaging around in them for a bit longer than was strictly necessary to grope his cock, pleased to find it as hard and wet as his own. _Patience, soldier._

Six more strokes followed, and the air filled with indignant, wretched wailing once more. On the second whack, the Holmes brothers reached out both hands towards each other, gripping through the awful, horrible, gorgeous, horny torment. Sherlock writhed and yelled at the heavy, breathtaking blows he’d been hoping to test himself against, trying to make it sound like he was being murdered, mainly to get on everyone's nerves in revenge. Mycroft got the whippier, lighter blows he’d been dreading on top of his extremely well-punished cheeks, challenging himself not to make ridiculous, undignified sounds, and failing miserably. 

Another round was decreed, and the players swapped again. Cacophony reigned in Hampstead. Had there been near neighbours, half of Greg's colleagues at the Yard would have been battering the door in by now to investigate a massacre. And then there'd probably be a lot of paperwork to do and a lot of awkward questions to answer.

When the strokes stopped coming, Greg and John circled the table, admiring their craftsmanship, and the wondrous sights to be seen. Sherlock, still in tanktop and shirt, with his knee socks up but his shorts and pants down, bounced on his toes and whimpered. Mycroft, with his shirttails up around his shoulders, trousers round his ankles and his sock garters showing, huffed and hissed through clenched teeth.

“Oh, nice pattern there, Mr Lestrade, very well-spaced. Mycroft’s strap marks are very well judged,” complimented Mr Watson.

“Thanks. Oh, you did a little gate thing on my youngest. Five horizontal lines and one bisecting the lot. Fiendish.”

“Yes, takes a bit of practice, but I get a lot of it, so it’s nice to have occasion to use it.”

The Detective Inspector was impressed. Mr Watson was evidently not quite the pushover he had thought him to be.

The already pained Holmes boys made faces of extreme disgust at each other, mutually agreeing that these men were simply beyond the beyond. Just too, too much.

Greg stepped in towards Sherlock, and gave his bottom gentle, tender strokes with his hand.

“Ooh, this is nice and warm. And these lovely little shorts stuck halfway down your legs set it off very nicely. My pretty Lockie. Thank Mr Watson, won’t you?”

“Bloody won’t!”

Mycroft grinned. _Knew you couldn’t be good all night._

“Won’t you?”

“Never! It hurt and I _don’t_ thank him, or you, you fucker!”

“Fine. Up you get.” Greg pulled him up by the hair, stripped the shorts from him when they fell to the floor, and dragged him across to one of the smaller pupil’s desks.

Sherlock wiggled, trying in vain to tug his hair free, instead causing a painful yank and that strange tingling in his cock again. _Heaven._

"No, no. _Thank you_ \- all right? I'm terribly sorry, Papa. I learned it from Mycie! I won't be bad again, not ever. Please? Don't be cross with me." He fluttered his long doe-like eyelashes, all too aware of the heartbreaking effect. 

"Flirting won't get you out of what's coming to you. Over my knee."

"Ooh, but I’m already sore...!" whined Sherlock, compelled, and, of course, all too eager to obey. A bit of a hand spanking would finish him off nicely.

“Plimsoll, Mr Watson.”

“Not the slipper as well?!” This was getting ridiculous, in Sherlock's opinion.

“Yes, as well. Over the top of your little tiger stripes. Perhaps that will teach you not to compete with your brother for the title of Worst Behaved Holmes. Basically, you both win, it’s a draw, OK?"

Sherlock did not seem happy about that. _There’s always a winner. And it’s always me._ Though, he had to admit, Mycroft was a serious contender.

Mycroft stayed lying on the desk, his head turned to the side to watch his brother getting his much-needed final hiding. Behind him, John ran his fingers along his stripes and bruises, and he shivered.

“Too much?” enquired Mr Watson, kindly.

“Mm, a little. But…thank you, J– Sir,” he corrected himself.

“Quite all right. Handsome lad, aren’t you?” he mused, bending down to whisper in his ear.

Lock was giving quite the performance in front of them, shrieking fit to burst. Mycroft tuned it out and tuned in to Mr Watson’s soothing words.

“Such a clever, handsome, brave boy. What a heartbreaker you’ll be when you’re all grown up, eh? Do yourself a favour when your schooldays are over. Join the civil service, and find yourself a nice soldier to settle down with.”

Mycroft chuckled in spite of himself. _Oh, John._

“Yes, sir,” he said, in his normal voice. “But he’ll have to cope with Papa and baby brother too.”

“Yeah, he will. The poor bugger.”

“Whispering sweet nothings into my boy’s ear, Mr Watson?” smirked Greg, who now had an armful of sobbing Sherlock, his sore bum glowing with heat.

"All right now, baby?"

"Mm-hm," whimpered Sherlock, putting on a decent show of pathos and sorriness.

"There, there. Good lad. Brave boy," he soothed for a minute or two, rocking him in a standing-up cuddle and rubbing his back.

John rubbed large, lazy circles round Mycroft’s lower back, and Mycroft mewed quietly as he was calmed and brought down to earth again.

"Shall we make it all better now?" said Greg.

Sherlock looked up tearfully, but full of hope. "Oh, yes, please."

"Want to go for a little bounce on your big brother?"

"Ooh, yes! Bouncy time!" Sherlock clapped his hands together excitedly, all hurts temporarily forgotten.

"What do you say, Mycie? Can you handle it?"

Mycroft flushed. "Yes, I suppose so,” he said, getting up from the desk. He inhaled sharply as he stood. “Though I am rather tender."

"Good. It'll remind you what happens when you cheek me off so much, won't it? Why don't you go and sit bare-arsed on top of one of those little desks for me. I see they're bolted into the floor. Convenient," smirked Greg.

"Isn't it?" Mycroft replied, dry as a digestive biscuit.

"Put your feet on the bench, facing away, so I can get a nice eyeful of your sore botty. I like to admire a job well done. And Lockie can face in and sit on your lap for a bit, how’s that?"

“But that will hurt!" complained the elder Holmes. "I don’t want to sit down _now_!”

“I think Lockie can find a way of taking your mind off it.”

"Bouncy!" exclaimed a very excited younger Holmes. 

"Yes, baby, bouncy-bouncy," agreed Greg, indulgently, tweaking his nose. 

Mycroft sighed wearily and came over. He pecked Greg on the cheek, then grabbed his brother's hand. "All right. Come on, Lock. Let's go and play while Papa helps Sir," he said, giving his Gregory a sly look.

Greg nodded. "Yeah, Papa's gonna help Sir, all right. You can watch. Keep your socks, on, the pair of you."

"Yes, Papa, we will," sang Sherlock, agreeably, lost in his silly, wonderful mood, pushed higher and higher by soaring adrenaline and dopamine.

He shucked off his clothing at last, all except his school socks, and then stripped Mycroft of his shirt and tie, leaving him standing in garters and navy argyles. "Mm. Yummy."

“It’s not fair. I should go on top and bounce on you while _you_ sit on a hard desk. You’re the worst brat of all most of the time!”

“Tough titty. I’m being good!”

“Debateable.”

“Oh! Well, I’m not the one who practically spaffed over Papa’s legs.”

“I’m not the one who got hard just from having his hand smacked!”

“Oh, yeah.”

Mycroft giggled, feeling his own happy hormones kick in. He opened the middle desk in the front row, took something out and winked at his brother. Very, very carefully he climbed onto the bench and lowered himself onto the desk-top, sitting facing the back of the room, grimacing all the way.

“Sore?”

“What do you think?!”

Sherlock stepped up on the bench between his brother’s spread feet, and Mycroft reached out, cupped his brother’s striped and throbbing bum in both hands, and took his cock into his mouth in one, long slide.

“Ooh, yessss…,” hissed Lock, bracing himself on Mycroft’s shoulders. He placed one foot up on the desk itself, leaning in to his brother's mouth, controlling the angle, and giving access to Mycroft's fingers as they probed and stroked between his cheeks, around his soft perineum, his balls, sneaking a finger into his tight little hole. "Oh, Mycroft..."

Greg grinned at John. John grinned back, mouthing ‘Oh my God!” at him, conspiratorially. And then something changed, and Mr Lestrade was back, eyes dilated with desire, grin showing canines once again. He stepped in towards the charming schoolmaster, still flushed from his earlier disciplinary exertions. Still fully clothed.

“Now, now, Mr Watson. What on earth are we going to do with you, eh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore feedback like Greg adores socks.


	5. Mr Watson succumbs to temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr Watson is seduced by a very bad man, and the Holmes boys have their fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starts out Johnstrade, with Mylock, goes to Johnlock and Mystrade. Basically ends with a quartet orgy.

“Me?” gulped Mr Watson, feeling the tables turning so fast his head span.  _My go!_

“Mm. You,” said Greg, seriously. “I’ve half a mind to give you a dose of what they’ve just had.”

“What?!” _Oh, blimey._

Greg shrugged, feeling like he was ticking off a junior constable at work. Apart from the raging hard-on, of course.

“You’ve been a bit slack in your duties, haven’t you, old son? Really not good value for money - however much it is I pay to keep them in this no doubt very expensive posh school. I expect better. I expect them to be reined in, not left to run wild, if half of what you tell me is true – causing havoc, fucking each other all over the grounds, if you’ll excuse the language, and disporting themselves for all to see. Like they’re doing now, as it happens.”

“Yes, so I see. They’re very talented boys…”

John gaped and tried to stop himself drooling at the sight of Sherlock - perfectly balanced with zen-like focus, eyes closed - having his cock expertly sucked by Mycroft, who sat with his legs splayed out either side of him, his hot pink arse pressed painfully against the hard wooden surface of a desk

“You’ve failed in your responsibility, from where I’m standing,” said Lestrade, reprovingly.

John’s head snapped back, playing flustered and rather taken aback. Lestrade softened his approach, titling his head sympathetically.

“But then again…there’s probably a reason your mind’s been elsewhere. Must be very frustrating, working here all the time. All these little monsters running you ragged.” Greg stalked around him, eyeing him up intensely, his voice persistent and cajoling. John shivered, loving this part of the game. 

“No contact with men your own age, or other men at all, apart from dusty academics. Young chap like you, it’s not natural. Not got a sweetheart, have you?”

“Erm, no. I haven’t,” said John, catching up. Poor, sweet Mr Watson was dreadfully discomfited. He adjusted his glasses and looked away.

“Must get lonely,” said Mr Lestrade, gently, oh-so-kindly.

_No need to be wary of me, Mr Watson. None at all._

John shrugged and pushed his lower lip out. “I get by. I have my work. Listen to the radio. I – I read a lot.”

“Bet you do,” replied Mr Lestrade, with some underlying meaning Mr Watson couldn’t quite discern. “Do you do anything else?”

He flushed, embarrassed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, prudishly.

Greg moved his head searchingly, to force eye contact with the shy man. Pure cat and mouse. He pitched his voice lower and deeper; hypnotic and taunting.

“Course you don’t. Proper bookworm, aren’t you? Bet you read about all sorts. Confiscate a lot of dirty mags from all these naughty boys. But do you ever wish you could do some of the things you read about?”

The breath caught in John’s throat. He used his unbearable and very real arousal as acting fodder. “I, I-,” he stammered, pushing his energy into a compelling performance of nerves and endearing befuddlement.

“Ever do what my boys are doing over there? See how good my Mycie is at making Lock happy? Look how well Lockie takes it. Ever fancy a bit of that?” he asked, solicitously, provocatively.

They both looked over to where Mycroft was fingering his brother with the confident rhythm born of years of experience. Sherlock groaned ecstatically, and Mycroft hummed in reply, incoherent murmurings around his brother’s long, elegant cock.

John momentarily lost the power of speech.

“Must be very _hard_ for you. When was the last time you…?” wheedled Greg.

John coughed circumspectly. “I take care of my…urges as much as any healthy man, I assure you,” he said, defensively.

What did this wolfish man, this confident Detective Inspector mean by dragging his personal secrets from him? What else would he feel compelled to reveal to him?

Greg smiled reassuringly. “Oh, I’m quite sure of that. I meant, when was the last time you let someone else…?” he trailed off, raising a querying eyebrow. “Or do you think it’s sinful? It is, if it’s any good, by the way.”

“Ah. Well. If you must know, I’ve never actually… Never…”

_Oh, John, you absolute beauty! Playing a blinder, love._

Mr Watson, mortified beyond belief, trailed off, shaking his head, embarrassed at having revealed too much.

“Never?!” said Greg, raising his eyebrows in amused shock, but trying not to make the poor young man feel too self-conscious about such an admission. “Oh, my. At your age? Are you saving yourself?”

Mr Watson blinked, a little angry, feeling he was being teased.

““I – no. I have no real desire to stay…pure. I was always too introverted. No-one has ever touched me. Like that. In that way before,” he admitted, the image of modest self-deprecation and humiliation.

“I find that hard to believe. And you such a neat little piece too. What a waste.”

“I’m not much to look at, really. I can’t imagine anyone would…”

“I would,” said Greg, all but licking his lips. John faltered and gasped almost inaudibly.

“You. Really?” The schoolmaster seemed shocked, and not a little flattered.

“Oh, yes. Tasty thing, you are. Has no-one ever told you?” Greg stepped in closer, bringing his hand up to John’s chin and lifting it.

Mr Watson shook his head hesitantly, compressing his lips.

“Said to myself when you opened the door. There’s a handsome young man in need of a good tumble. Nothing I’d like better.” He moved in. John stepped away.

_Oh, come on, John, put me out of my misery!_

_Oh, come on, Greg, make it happen._

“Mr Lestrade, I don’t think you ought to be propositioning me like this, really I don’t. If anyone ever found out, I’d lose my job. Besides, I…don’t have any experience to offer…” John scooted away a little further.

“Fancy learning something new, Mr Watson? Want me to give you a practical?”

Again Greg closed in on the jittery teacher, who took a step backwards, shaking his head and holding his hands up as though to fend off his would-be seducer.

John closed his eyes and tried to control himself, feeling his cock twitch and throb in his tweed trousers.

Greg advanced, breathing deep and heavy. “You'd like me to, wouldn’t you? Show you what to do," he said, whispering hotly into John’s ear.

John turned his head to look into the other man’s deep, dilated eyes. He closed his eyes, wavering, holding back with great reluctance. And then, finally, his resolve gave way, and the barriers of self-denial fell away with a crash. “Y-yes,” he breathed, looking up at Greg through his glasses, blushing coyly, letting his eagerness and passion show. “I… That would be very…kind. Yes. Please. Mr Lestrade. Sir.” He was lost to temptation.

_At last._

Greg grinned, all suave, easy charm. He reached up and ran both hands through John’s hair, stroking it possessively. He tapped John’s chin and ran a finger up to his cheek, then to his ear.

“Not being kind. You’re champion. Tight little rugby scrum-half, really, aren’t you? Not a boring schoolmaster. All that pent up energy in you. See it a mile off.” He ran his hands down and squeezed his biceps. John tensed them, pleased at the fiercely aroused look it induced. “Oh, bet you’re dying for a run out with someone who can keep you on your toes.”

John swallowed thickly, a tremor thrumming through him.

Their bodies were touching now. Cocks just barely grazing together through layers of fabric. Both electrified with need and anticipation. John brought his shaking hands up, wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist, tentatively rubbing at the cleft above his firm arse. Greg leaned down to the shorter man’s pixie-like ear, and whispered, confidentially, urgently: “I want to _have_ you, Watson. Here. Now. In front of my boys. Do you understand what I’m talking about? Will you let me?”

“Oh, God!” John threw himself at him, finally, pulling Greg by his lapels into an ardent embrace. Their mouths met in a desperate clash. “Oh, fuck me…," he moaned, lost in his part. “Oh, _yes!”_

“Why, Mr Watson, how very forward of you,” teased Greg, loving this silliness. He grabbed the man who’d been his lover for nearly two years, and snogged him like they’d only just met, like it was the first time between them, almost. Frantic, needy, wet. Their hands flew all over each other, grabbing and kneading. Greg cupped John’s head, scraping his nails down his neck while John shivered and gave as good as he got in return. Their legs entangled, and John came up on his toes a little, so their straining pricks rubbed together through too much material, bringing each other to full hardness.

“Oh, my dear Mr Watson, quite a treat you’ve got there, haven’t you?” Greg mused, stroking across his fly buttons.

"John. Please... My name's John. Call me John...," he moaned, breathy and inflamed, taking in every inch of this thrilling man with his hands.

“I’m Greg. But you can call me Detective Inspector,” panted Greg through a grin. John, as John, gave him an indulgent look and rolled his eyes. Greg laughed and pulled his head back in by the hair.

“I’m going to fuck you cross-eyed, John,” he promised, in something resembling his normal sex voice. “Keep your glasses on.”

John groaned from the depth of his gut, and Greg grinned predatorially, biting and sucking at his neck. "Darlin',” he said, between kisses, “Take that silly gown off. You look like Batman."

"Who?" said John, blinking faux-naively, before removing it and discarding it on the floor. A sound that may or may not have been a bark of laughter emanated from Mycroft behind them, through sounds of debauchery and ravishment.

They turned to see Sherlock now impaling himself over and over again on Mycroft’s large, hard prick, his sweaty curls flying around him, face flushed with effort. Mycroft’s hands gripped his brother’s hips as he shoved into him roughly, moving his sore arse up and down upon the desk, using the bench to brace his feet while Sherlock clasped his back and neck for support. They were groaning and panting together, rutting like pagans on Summer Solstice.

John bit the inside of his cheek at the sight.

Suddenly, Greg’s hands were unbuttoning his jacket, pulling violently at his tie. They fumbled at the studded collar, then, as Mycroft had occasioned to predict earlier in the evening, simply ripped it until it stuck up at a crazy angle. John looked utterly dishevelled and stunned; his light, fine hair became madly rumpled as Greg made it his mission to ruin this uptight teacher.

“Get these off,” he growled, tugging at the waistband of the tweed trousers, while he began frantically undressing himself. John obeyed, kicking off his shoes. He stood gazing in wonder as Greg threw off his suit and stood before him in tight black underwear.

“Gosh,” he gulped, staring at Greg’s sculpted, hairy chest. “You’re very…athletic.”

“Yeah. Like it?” 

“Yes. Oh, yes. I don’t know what you’ll make of me,” he said, still playing shy for fun.

_Make the bugger work for it._

“Get it all off and I’ll tell you. Leave the sock garters. I like them.”

Another suspicious Mycroftian sound of amusement met their ears and they grinned together. Sherlock beamed over his brother’s shoulder, kissing the air at them while he rocked in his lap.

John continued to strip, pulling his tanktop off over his head.

The breath caught in Greg's throat. "Braces?" he said, hoarsely.  _Another prezzie from Mycroft. Bless his filthy heart._ "Interesting. Let's be having them, then." 

He unclipped and handed them over, and Greg placed them on the large desk. Then under Greg’s appraising glare, John removed everything else, broken collar included, until he stood naked in his garters and glasses. He felt incredibly naughty.

Greg beckoned to him with a come-hither finger and a dangerous gaze. John was compelled to submit.

Greg sensually brought his hand to his own mouth, licking his palm with great deliberateness. He brought it down and wrapped it around John’s needy cock, adding to the telltale wetness of extreme arousal with his palm.

"Oh, Detective Inspector!"

"Like saying that, don't you? John."

"Uh-huh...yes..." 

"John, not Jonathan?" asked Greg, softly, sweetly. He flicked and rubbed at one of the smaller man's sandy nipples, enjoying its texture on his fingertip, while his other hand stroked up and down his pleasingly wide, blunt length. 

"No, just John. And you?" he asked, through little intakes of breath. "Greg, not Gregory?"  _Or bloody Papa, for God's sake._

Greg read the cheeky real-John thought and smiled, keeping his voice whispery low, just between them for now.

“I'll settle for 'oi, you there' if you say it in the throes of passion. Gorgeous, you are, John," said Greg, sincerely, pronouncing the name with reverence, as though an incantation or the name of a minor deity. “Just one of my three types,” he grinned, soppily. Real and play-John shook his head at his own dumb luck. 

They petted each other languidly, enjoying their mutual semi-nakedness. It felt nice to be intimate and romantic in the middle of this daft little scene. Quiet in the eye of the storm.

Sherlock and Mycroft evidently felt the same, reducing their frantic noise down to shared near-silent gasps and grunts, breathing together in sync as they were wont to do in their moments of mutual pleasure. Their actions became miniscule, barely discernible, teasing themselves on the brink. A new game - who can be gentlest, who can drive the other maddest by withholding, who can move least. Mycroft was still, using only his internal muscles to twitch his prick, clutched tightly in Sherlock's slick passage. Sherlock used only his abdominals and core to clench and fuck back onto it. Their mouths hung open in intense concentration, overwhelmed by the sensations produced by such little movement.

Greg smiled as he caught them whispering whatever Holmses whispered into each other’s ears when they made love. Equations, possibly. Latin poetry. Or just confessions of devotion, like any normal couple.

"Will you take me to bed, Mr Lestrade?" husked John, back in role.

"Mm, maybe later. I think I'll take you to desk first," smirked Greg, and with a burst of energy scooped him up and over his shoulder.

"Oi, mind me glasses! Just because I'm shorter than you... I'm not a bloody sex doll!" grumbled Real John, disguising a laugh and giving a token struggle. 

"Aren’t you, though? Tough luck, mate. Never get tired of it." said Greg, gruffly, smacking the bare backside with a free hand.

"Caveman."

"Grr."

Greg whisked him over to the desk, feeling alive and ridiculous and glorious. He lowered his mildly protesting captive to the floor, gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

Demonstrating the kind of old-school ingenuity sorely lacking in the modern policeman, Greg swiftly retrieved the braces and used them to tie John's hands together, then bent his sturdy, stocky body over the large desk, which was seeing more action in one evening than a desk strictly should in a lifetime. He went round the other side and tethered him to the handle of one of the drawers. He twanged the elastic. Y _ep, enough room to manoeuvre_.

John's bare arse was suddenly facing the room, giving at least one of the Holmes boys an excellent front row seat for his forthcoming deflowering, while the other had to lean back on his elbows and crane his neck round to get an eyeful. 

Now there was something worth watching instead of sentimental claptrap, Sherlock and Mycroft were taking more of an interest, and began fucking faster again. Both their faces were bright with expectation, like puppies about to be let out into the garden.

"There you go," said Greg, happily, to the room in general. "Don't want you doing yourself a mischief, do we? You can have a good old struggle if you fancy."

“Is this how it’s usually done? It seems a little unorthodox,” said Mr Watson, rather concerned.

“Don’t you worry about it, sweetheart. You just relax.”

Greg stripped off his underwear at last, playing with himself at John's eyeline.

"Oh. Mr Lestrade," breathed John, always genuinely impressed but playing at slightly daunted. "You're...rather...erm, big."

"Papa's  _huge_ , sir," called Sherlock, helpfully, from his bouncing position, his stocking feet protruding over the desk as he straddled Mycroft's lap.

"Enough from the cheap seats, thanks," said Greg, dismissively. "Yeah. Nature's kind. Think you can take it?"

 _Ooh, what do you reckon, Greg?_ "I don't know...," said the young teacher, doubtfully, nervously twisting his hands together in their restraints.

"I'll help you along. There's plenty we can do to make it easier for you, poor, tight little _virgin_. Won't hurt you, will I? Need something... Ah. Erm. Don't seem to have any...," Greg was thrown momentarily.

"Inkwell," coughed Mycroft, between little thrusts and bounces that made Sherlock squeak.

Frowning, Greg checked the large inkwell on the desk. It was filled with lubricant. Of course it was. And that’s what Mycroft had taken out when he opened the desk earlier, and what he had used to prepare Sherlock. An inkwell in _every_ desk. Attention to detail par excellence.

"For God's sake...," he muttered, trying harder than ever not to just fling himself into a chair in a fit of grateful hysterics.

John snorted and rested his head on the desk, shoulders and back shaking up and down suspiciously. 

"Oi," said Greg quietly, in his normal voice. "Won't be laughing in a minute, mate...," which really didn't help.

Seeing that he had to do something, Greg moved back round behind John and gave a hefty flat-handed smack to the middle of his twitching arse. John yipped and schooled his features back into 'terribly anxious, oh, please be gentle, Detective Inspector' mode. This stuff was more difficult than it looked.

"Concentrate, Mr Watson. There'll be an exam at the end."

Mycroft bit down on Sherlock's shoulder as he too caught the giggles. Sherlock used the pain to channel his own unhelpful mirth, and business continued as usual. 

“Where were we?” said Greg.

“Poor, tight little virgin?” grinned John.

“Oh, yeah. Shut it, you two over there.”

“I think you were going to violate me,” John giggled. He stopped when Greg smacked his arse again. “Oof!”

“Behave yourself, or I won’t.”

From behind him John caught the sound of muttering and a scuffle. 

"Lock, stop it, get off! I can’t sit down anymore, I really can’t!”

“Shh, don’t be stupid.”

“Get up! Turn round so I can see! I’m missing it."

"Don't...wanna...stop...so…close…"

"Well, I’m not. Stop bouncing!"

"Ca-a-a-n't... Oof!" A thump and a stumble; the sound of one lanky body being thrown off by another, grabbed and prevented from being knocked out on the corner of the bench.

"Mycie! Ooh, I thought you were just doing it harder. Hardly cricket, is it?"

"Stop moaning. Bend over and we can carry on, but both of us can watch. Don’t be selfish."

"Mmf, OK. There. Happy?"

"Transported."

"Get - oh! - on with it."

“Unnghh... Oh, look at our men, brother mine.”

“All ours… Ooh, Mycie, look! I think your form tutor’s going to get his brains buggered out.”

Indeed he was. Greg was squeezing the base of his own cock and rubbing it firmly up and down the crack of John’s arse.

"42 and never been kissed, eh? Anyone ever kiss you... _here_ , John?" he crooned, reaching under him to pull at his cock from behind, rubbing firmly just underneath the plummy head with two fingers.

"N-no. I don’t know what you…"

Greg descended to his knees and nuzzled in to John’s inner thigh, sucking a bruise onto the golden, unblemished flesh, and then on each of his bottom cheeks.

John startled as Greg pulled away again, removing the insistent hot suction.

Greg smacked at him lazily.

"What about  _here,_ John...?” he said, silkily, as he rubbed both smooth buttocks with his hands. Not peachy and lush like Sherlock, nor pale and pert like Mycroft – John’s arse was squarer, muscular, dusted with blond hair; tight and athletic. Greg loved it, loved watching it flex and ripple beneath his hand, or face, or hips. He spread him open gently with his thumbs, looking his fill at the dusky pink rose set shallowly between the firm cheeks. “Ever been kissed just…here?"

Mr Watson gasped, shocked beyond imagining, as he felt hot breath over his exposed hole. A kiss to the left of it. A little lick at the very top of his cleft.

"Oh, I’ve never…! But surely people don't – do they? Ah! Oh, _Greg_...!" he wailed, forgetting himself as Greg suddenly plunged his mouth to it, his tongue entering him and sliding gorgeously around inside.

'Wasn't this terribly wrong? But, then, how could anything that felt so miraculously  _good_ ever be so?', thought John, trying to hold on to the mindset of his character, but found himself exclaiming “Oh, fuck!” instead. He felt high and insane, caught between himself and the virtuous schoolmaster, so turned on he might levitate.

"Mmffggnarrrgh," said Greg, reassuringly. A litany of begging met his ears.

"Oh, Greg, oh, _please_ , don't-stop-don't-stop-don't _ever_..."

Across the room, Mycroft and Sherlock were both bent over their desk, lost in vicarious arousal and awe as Mycroft thrust deeply into Sherlock’s sizzling, striped backside. The debauched spectators groaned in unison. Mycroft bit on the back of his brother’s neck and brought his hand round to let Sherlock chew on his knuckle.

“Do you want my tongue as well, dearest?”

“Mmm. Licky.”

Sherlock leaned over further and spread his legs, while Mycroft pulled out smoothly, descended behind him and feasted on their combined tastes.

After minutes of exquisite torment, Greg pulled away from John’s fragrant arse and stood back up. John groaned with disappointment.

“Don’t worry.” He slipped a finger down to the man’s dilated, damp hole, teasing it with the tip. He reached into the inkwell and anointed his fingers.

“Now, I don’t know how much you know about male anatomy, Mr Watson,” said Greg, condescendingly, sliding his finger back in further and wiggling it slowly.

 _Only_ _seven years at med school, lifetime of clinical practice, few years as an RMO…_

“Not my subject,” said John, with a straight face, breathing steadily, trying to control himself just a little longer.

“Mm. Well, there’s a very special place inside you…a little hub of sensitive nerves, just up…here somewhere…,” said Greg, as though concentrating very hard, and pushing in a second finger.

“Oh! Really?!” said John, his voice pitching up a notch.

“Yes. I wonder if I can find it for you...,” said Greg, enjoying himself, crooking and twisting his two fingers in the exact way he knew John liked. “Oh, turns out I can.”

“Fuck, _there_!” John’s legs shook in an involuntary spasm and he slammed his head on the desk’s surface as his arse became the centre of the universe. “Oooohh….”

“Here?”

"God, there, _there._ You _know_ it’s there…Greg!” he cried, fully himself, riven by pleasure.

“Mmm, I know. Look so good on my fingers, John. Fucking clamping around them. So good.”

John moaned continuously as his prostate was massaged and probed with relentless clinical precision. Teaching Greg how to do that years ago had been a very, very sensible idea.

He grunted and clenched on Greg’s thick, skilful fingers. After a while it became almost too much, the feeling of being pushed towards orgasm too intensely inducing something akin to panic.

“Please,” panted John. “I can’t…”

“S’all right. I won’t milk it out of you. Not now.”

Greg’s evil love of pressing that little button to completion with no manual stimulation on his cock at all was a dark indulgence best saved for the bedroom. Poor innocent Mr Watson still had to endure his first ever experience of penetration, after all, and Greg wanted to make him come while lanced on his cock. It would give the boys something nice to look at.

“Ready for something bigger?”

“Mm-hm, yeah …” panted John, collecting himself. He spread his legs wider and adjusted his position, angling his backside up towards Greg.

“Christ, John, you’re so open for me…”

“Greg, you know I could come just from you talking, but please, please, for the love of God, fuck me.”

“Not very demure, is it, Mr Watson?”

“Get in there, Greg. Pop my cherry.”

Greg snorted and rubbed his leaking prick up against the slick, widespread crack of John’s arse. It would be rude not to.

“Do you know, I think I will. It’s my birthday. Gonna split you in fucking half.”

“Yeah…”

Greg greased himself from the inkwell again, enjoying the slip and slide of his hand over his rampant hardness. He lowered himself over the bent form of his lover, and used his hand to guide himself to that inviting, pulsating hole. John felt stretched to the limit, and exhaled slowly, bearing down to allow himself to be breached.

“John - !” gasped Greg as John’s arse gave way to him and he sank the wide head of himself inside. Groaning with near-anguish, he pushed forth, and began to thrust, pressing and dragging in and out of the warm, snug passage with lubricious friction. John keened, his voice broken and strangulated as he was slowly ravished. His arsehole fluttered around the invading force of Greg’s cock.

Greg picked up the pace, shunting both of them further forwards with greater and greater power, until the sounds changed to vigorous, bestial cries and rhythmic exhalations. 

Mycroft and Sherlock had resumed their own energetic fucking and fell into sync with their lovers, eyes blown wide as they took in the sight of Greg’s arse pistoning back and forth over John’s. They, however, were usually always coherent, even _in_ _flagrante_.

“Brother mine?” panted Mycroft, through his exertions.

“Yes, dear?”

“Are you finding it quite difficult to come off?”

“What makes you say that?” grunted Sherlock, gripping the sides of the little desk for dear life.

“We’ve been at it all this time, and one of us has usually reached their crisis by now.”

“It is strange, isn’t it?”

“It’s the pain. Masochists we may be, but it’s a little more distracting than I anticipated. Especially after all that infernal bouncing. Marvellous as it always is, of course.”

“Oh, thank God it’s not just me,” breathed Sherlock in relief, “Think I’m a bit overstimulated, if you can believe it.”

“Do you think perhaps we might be more gainfully employed over there?” suggested his brother, winding down his thrusts.

“I do, brother. I do,” agreed Sherlock. “Time to call on our support network. Pull out, you big sod.”

In the midst of their fantasty-state, Greg and John failed to notice that they were objects of Holmesian scrutiny, and Greg almost jumped when he felt two cool hands on his back.

“Help you, Papa?” said Sherlock, in his normal rich baritone. Greg huffed a laugh even as he snapped his hips against John’s backside as it pushed back against him.

“Hello, Trouble. Go and be nice to John with your mouth.”

“What would you have, my love?” growled Mycroft in his ear.

Greg shuddered. “Give it to me.”

“Wonderful man,” replied Mycroft, nipping at his earlobe.

Greg awkwardly shuffled himself and John further back, using the elasticated braces as a bungee line, making room for Sherlock to slide gracefully to his knees before them. Wincing slightly, he cast around and found some discarded bits of uniform, using them to pad his knees on the bare floorboards.

John winked down at him, and Sherlock smiled beatifically, before inching forward and lapping at his cock. He tickled the slit with the tip of his tongue, imbibing his flavour. John twitched and writhed on Greg’s cock, now stilled whilst Mycroft busily prepared Greg's arsehole to receive him. Logistics were complicated, but never impossible.

Sherlock grasped the base of John, and slid his mouth over the weeping glans, drinking him like a connoisseur; he tightened his mouth to create a pressure and suction that made John’s stomach contract with desire. John looked down. Sherlock - his long tongue swirling and flicking - breathed steadily through his nose, cheekbones prominent, mouth full. He always treated this act as though it were the key to some universal mystery; it seemed to calm him and send him into a trance. It made John wild with ego to think his cock could wring such reverence from such a beautiful suppliant.

John felt Greg tense and heard his hissing intake of breath, and then he was pushed slightly forward, which only inched his cock deeper into Sherlock’s throat. Mycroft, his hands steady and calm, as though in command of a Special Forces operation, was spearing Greg with two fingers, then three, giving him the direct, rougher handling he craved.

“Fuck, Myc… Been a while…,” he whispered, throatily.

“Loosening now, Gregory. Oh, parting for me now. Ready.”

“Shove it in him, Myc, you know he loves it.”

Mycroft did as John told him, positioning himself at Greg’s dark puckered opening, ramming in hard, his curvature perfectly designed to hit the spot first time.

Greg cried out and fell forwards into John, gripping his shoulders for support. John braced himself against the desk at full arm's length, and locked his thighs and hips to create the perfect resistance. Sherlock’s head was thrown back a little, and he momentarily lost his prize with a wet slurp. He whinged. "Oi, some of us are trying to work here!”

John grabbed him by the ears and pulled him back onto his cock. “Mouth busy, you.” Sherlock gave him an irreverent thumbs-up with one hand, then used the same hand to stroke his own waning erection back to raging stiffness.

Silence fell, broken only by a little “mmf!” as John’s glasses - literally fucked off him - succumbed to the laws of physics, hitting Sherlock’s nose on the way down.

Mycroft threw back his head as he was engulfed in Gregory’s tight arse, ecstatic at being granted this privilege - of fucking John through Gregory, and Sherlock through John. He’d been on the verge for so long, his climax staved off by pain, distraction, emotional overload, and perhaps a subconscious reluctance to end this mad, magical evening; but now the beacon was in sight, and he hastened to it.

Sherlock relaxed fully in mind and body, receiving all three of them, each unique in their own way, each loved beyond endurance, as necessary to him as elements. Fire and Earth and Air to his Water. Three was enough. Three was perfect for him.

Greg grunted, fucked and fucking, grateful beyond describing as they made the beast with four backs and an oddly shaped middle. John’s grasping tightness; his own, melting shaft; Mycroft’s searing brand inside him; Lock sucking wetly and furiously rubbing himself beneath them… It was too much. More than he deserved, but everything he wanted.

Howling into the air with lupine abandon, Gregory Lestrade, 49 and 17 all at once, came. And came. And came. John felt his arse flood, Greg splashing against his g-spot, and, unable to do otherwise, released with a shocked cry into Sherlock’s gulping throat. Mycroft, as deep into Greg as he’d ever been - and by extension into John, into Sherlock - seemed to fall apart at the seams as he shuddered against his lover’s bent back and shook himself empty at last.

And Sherlock, eyes ablaze with worship for all of them, squeezed and stripped his cock with jerky arrhythmic strokes, then with feather-light fingers, touched his little frenulum just _there…_ His orgasm shot from him with brain-frying pressure. His entire body contracted, and he heard only the blood rushing in his ears, saw only blackness round the edges of his vision.

Each of the four men said three names aloud at varying volumes; a full dozen sex-filled cries resounding round the room.

No-one could recall who started laughing first. But then, they never could.

The game fell away by unspoken mutual agreement that reality was madder by far, and far more preferable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was rather long. Hope you didn't mind too much. Next and final part is aftermath, and much shorter!


	6. Soppy Epilogue (Sopilogue?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Afterglow, pure and simple, and full of banter.

The first one to speak was John, and the question he asked was the important question he always asked in the aftermath of any particularly dynamic night of passion: “All right, lads?”

Mycroft, hands on his knees, bent at the waist to catch his breath rather than sitting down (for highly apparent physical reasons), raised an arm and decided he didn’t have it in him to speak just yet. “

“Catch your breath, love. Don’t faint on us, now.”

“Your fault if he does,” chirped Sherlock, always annoyingly animated in his immediate afterglow, just when everyone else was shattered. His grouchy phase would inevitably kick in later. “You’ve wrecked my big brother. Look at him. Like a knackered old horse after the Grand National.”

John tutted. Saving his dignity instead of responding, Mycroft sloped off to the supply cupboard to fetch resources, wincing delicately as he went.

Greg was slumped upon the floor, back to the desk, hand to his forehead, stunned almost beyond speech. He could feel Mycroft's spend leaking out of him, but was far too dazed to care at this precise moment.

John was sitting cross-legged on the desk itself, having shed the not-that-tightly tied braces which had served for a bondage aid. He too was filled to overflowing, but secretly enjoyed letting it dribble out onto the desk-top. Sherlock, too tender to sit properly, was lying on his front on the floor amid a pile of crumpled, sticky vintage school uniforms, head propped on his hands, wiggling his feet in the air.

“God, the welts on your arse, Lock!" exclaimed John, gazing down with impressed wonderment. "Greg, I think you’ve drawn a Tube Map here…”

“Very funny,” griped Sherlock, trying to twist away from the irksome mockery.

“No, seriously, that’s the Central Line, there’s the Bakerloo… Ooh, look! Hammersmith and City!”

“Shut up, John! Greg, do us all a favour and wallop _him_ bandy-legged next time, please!”

“Well, you could power the National Grid from my backside,” complained Mycroft, coming back to the conversation, holding wet wipes and towels.

Greg whistled as he caught a glimpse of the wounds he’d inflicted on the eldest Holmes. “Oh, that’s nothing, you big baby. Just a few little taps,” he said, disingenuously, feeling elated in general.

Mycroft looked at him in disbelief. “Rotter,” he said, with playful accusation. He was extremely satisfied with his markings.

“Bloody hell, that’s red raw,” hissed John, looking closer at the crisscrossed lines and purpling, mottled bruises adorning Mycroft's usually unblemished bottom. “I’ll get you something for that, but only if you let me rub it in.”

“Perv,” accused Sherlock. John grinned in agreement.

“Got to give it to you, lads, you know how to commit to a scene,” praised Greg.

Grimacing suddenly, John unfolded his legs and patted them, making a revolted face as he looked at his hand. He peered down at Greg, and up at Mycroft, searchingly, seeing exactly what he expected to find.

“Oh, Sherlock, bloody hell, look at that! _All_ our legs are covered! Even Mycroft’s! How are you able to fire your spunk so bloody far? Apparently at right angles! Must have gone right through the middle of all of us and rebounded or something…”

“Pelvic floor exercises and practice, of course. It promotes a stronger release. My jizz could launch rockets,” he said, proudly.

Mycroft looked simply horrified at this crudity.

Greg shrugged. “I’m not complaining. Always great fun to watch.”

“Don’t encourage him, Gregory. The laundry from his teenage years had to be seen to be believed. He used to have a target in his bedroom,” replied Mycroft, appalled.

“You were my target, Mycie,” riposted Sherlock, truthfully.

“Yes, I was, wasn’t I? Lucky me,” said his brother, not as ironically as he’d intended to.

Greg sighed with reluctance. “Probably should adjourn to somewhere with soft furnishings. There's been a bit too much desk-based activity of late and it's playing merry hell with my knees. Ooh, and me back,” he groaned, feeling it creak as he moved.

“I always said I hated desk jobs, but I think I've changed my mind,” said John, giggling childishly.

“Not funny, Watson,” declared Sherlock.

“You're all perfectly disgusting. Here, let me clean you up. Take my mind off the searing agony of my devastated behind. You could serve it in a steakhouse as a main course, I tell you,” said Mycroft, playing up to the lighthearted mood and brandishing his clean-up equipment.

“Always prepared, love, aren’t you?” grinned Greg, fondly, taking a towel and a couple of wet wipes as he stood with great effort.

“Indeed. I’m thinking of joining the Scouts.”

John barked a sardonic laugh. “The last thing we need is more uniforms in this place. What next, Sherlock in the Sea Cadets?”

“Now, there’s a thought!” said Greg, seriously considering it.

“I’d like that!”

“I know, baby. Aw.”

“Sea Cadets? They’d mutiny,” muttered Mycroft, forebodingly, shaking his head.

 ****

Much later, after a light supper and a bottle of wine, they were lounging around the living room in dressing gowns, pyjamas and next to nothing, ointments and unguents applied to sore arses and even sorer knees. Greg broke through the serenity with the first coherent sentence uttered since they’d emerged blinking from the schoolroom back into contemporary Hampstead.

"Can't thank you enough, my loves. You bloody lunatics. For all this. It means... It's just amazing. Christ, how am I this lucky?" He shook his head in bewilderment. He never could make sense of it. Best not to question it.

"Dunno, must have been a saint in a former life," commented John, yawning slightly.

"Don't say that. Means I'll be a traffic warden or something in the next one. All this effort you went to..." Greg was lost for words, and not for the first time after such an epic fuckfest. But this - the grand gesture, the loving minutiae of it all - had thrilled and moved him more than he thought possible.

"Well, you know what they say, Greg, me old mucker. School days, best days of your life," said John, winking at him impishly.

"Glad you enjoyed yourself, darling. It wasn't exactly a chore for us, you know."

"Most fun I've had in 49 years, Myc."

"Really? We couldn't tell, mate," chuckled John.

"Ssh. Talking. Stop now," grumbled Sherlock from amongst the sofa cushions, his eyes drooping heavily.

"There's a novelty. We've worn him out. Thank God. There will be peace in our time,” quipped Greg.

"Told you before, Gregory,” drawled Mycroft, lazily. “It only takes a few hours of prolonged Method roleplay and vigorous sexual intercourse to quiet a Holmes in mind, body and soul."

"Luckier and luckier."

"Shuup. Go'way, dickheads," grunted Sherlock, batting the air with a floppy hand. 

"Bedtime," decided Greg and meaning it. He may have felt 17 in mind and soul, but his body told a different story.

"Bathtime first," contradicted John, still feeling tacky with combined bodily fluids and wet-wipe residue. 

"I rather agree," groaned Mycroft as he attempted to move. “I smell like a brothel in the late Roman Empire."

" _Volo anaticulam cumminosam meam_ ,” giggled Sherlock quietly, with his eyes closed.

"Eh?" said John, quirking a brow.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Lock… It means, 'I want my rubber ducky,'" explained Mycroft, indulgently.

"You're so making that up!" said John, mildly outraged.

Sherlock chuckled, eyes still closed. "Nope."

"Oi-oi, you've perked up,” said Greg, reaching out to tickle the sole of his foot. Sherlock kicked pathetically.

"Haven't. Bugger off."

"Be quiet, infernal nuisance," tutted Mycroft. 

John suddenly sat up, recalling something. "Hang on, speaking of Latin... Sherlock. The school crest thing on your blazers. You were going to tell us what it meant."

"Rrrgh, not  _now_..." he ground out with irritation, well on his way to a post-coital grump.

"What's all this?" asked Greg, puzzled.

Mycroft smiled, a little embarrassed at it now. "I had a silly notion. The crest on our school blazers, did you notice it? I designed it. The symbols have meanings."

"I confess I didn’t notice, actually. Sorry, doll. I was preoccupied with the urgent need to thrash the living daylights out of you and get your cock up my bum. Enlighten me."

"You probably chose the right focus for your attention, my dear. Well, as it happens..."

Sensing his brother about to upstage him, and never one to let something as stupid as tiredness get in the way of being centre of attention, Sherlock was suddenly alert and sitting up. He launched into Self-Regarding Explanation Mode.

"Well –  _actually,_ there are four quarters in the crest, right? One for each of us, obviously. They’re bound in the centre by a gold circlet of fidelity. So far, so soppy. As for the heraldic symbols: a bear on its hind legs, stands for one who shows strength and fierce protection of kindred. That’s our Gregory, of course. Hairy too, so highly appropriate."

Greg smirked and rolled his eyes, but was touched all the same.

Sherlock continued. “A column with a snake curled round it, means fortitude with wisdom and constancy. My beloved brother, who else?” He cast a covertly doting look at him, letting the full force of his sincerity show beneath the habitually mocking gaze.

“That’s really quite cute,” said Greg, teasingly. “What about you, Lock? A bumblebee, maybe; irritating, but necessary, always a sting in the tail? A scratching cat in heat? An abstract portrait of a pain in the arse?” He was becoming a little hysterical with all that he’d recently been through.

“Always _so_ amusing, Lestrade. Actually, I’m the chimera,” he replied, sniffing haughtily.

“Meaning?” queried John, somewhat baffled.

His expression softened once more. “An enigma. Something it’s impossible to believe exists. You old romantic, Mycie,” he teased, obviously affected. Mycroft acknowledged him with a fond nod of the head.

“And the fourth?” asked John, curious to learn.

“Wreath of oak leaves - for a hero who has saved a fellow citizen's life or shown patriotism in defence of one's native land. You, John. Obviously,” said Sherlock, gently, gazing at him with solid, loving respect. Mycroft’s mouth turned up at the edges in his own subtler expression of high esteem and pride. Greg simply glowed like a moonstruck teenager.

John exhaled steadily, and his face twitched as he fought against choking up.       

"You Holmes boys, honestly," said Greg, on John’s behalf. "Thank you, my sweethearts. You've made an old git very happy."

"You're welcome, old git," said Sherlock, merrily, flopping back down onto his side.

"Lock, really. You're welcome, you handsome devil," said Mycroft, charmingly.

Greg huffed a laugh. “Pleasure was all mine.”

John leaned in and gave him a tender, sighing kiss.

"Happy birthday, love. Got your back all the way, mate. And side and front an’ all." 

Greg smiled, a little watery-eyed. Must be the tiredness and the comedown, he thought. Or the over-emotional ravings of a very ancient man, admittedly with a bit of life left in him yet.

Mycroft approached, leaned down and did the same as John, licking lightly at his mouth.

"Happy birthday, my dear. You are in excellent shape, and I shan’t sit for a week. Anthea is going to have to order me a special cushion."

“Well, she’ll enjoy that, won’t she, the dirty cow?”

Sherlock rolled off the sofa and flopped at Greg's feet, planting a little peck on each one.

"'ppy Birthday,  _Papa_. You're an excessively virile brute and we don't know what we'd do without you."

Greg grabbed him and kissed him properly, humming mock-sternly. “Yeah, don’t you forget it. Anymore naughtiness and you’ll know about it.”

John dragged Sherlock to his feet, who whined petulantly. “Carry me,” he demanded impudently, shoving John’s arm.

“Piss off!” replied John, cheerfully batting him away, then dragging him by the hand to the bathroom. Mycroft followed, shaking his head in affectionate despair.

"You're all my favourite," called Greg after them, heaving himself up.

"But mostly me,” called back Sherlock. “Now let's get in the bath for God's sake and wash off all this dreadful sentiment."

Mycroft’s voice ebbed away as he followed on. "Agreed, brother mine. Agreed."

Greg stood and took a moment to himself. He smiled, feeling that, really, if a bloke had to get older, he had better do it in the company of geniuses and lunatics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed. If so, tell your fanfic friends. If not, it wasn't me...

**Author's Note:**

> Comments gratefully received, as always. x


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